Claire Stanfield Takes Chane and Looks on in Life
by SavingtheGeneration
Summary: Collaboration with Black Cat Running. This fanfic is about Claire Stanfield. Throughout this story we watch Claire and Chane's love for each other bloom. An angry Graham and Ladd out for revenge, and Claire somehow acquiring immortality. Read and review!
1. 2003: In Which Felix and Luck Reminisce

Hi! This is a Baccano! fanfic written by me and Black Cat Running. ^^ Black Cat Running did most of the work though. XD I hardly did anything. ^^' Anyway, this story is pretty much just what the title says. XD This is set after 1932 after Claire finally reunites with Chane in Manhattan. Again, this is mostly anime based, but its got some light novel references here and there. Oh! It's also set kind of all over the place like the anime, but we both thought it was a good idea. XD Anyway, we hope you enjoy! ^^

* * *

-2003-

"_The best way to keep the Rail Tracer from showing up is to believe the story when someone tells it to you. But if it's already here, your only hope is to keep running until the morning sun rises."_

"Claire?"

_"There is one way to be spared. You just have to kill it, before it kills you."_

"Claire."

_ "Mercy and compassion are virtues that only the strong are privileged to possess. And I am strong."_

"Claire!"

Felix Walken did not move, but his mind stirred from his thoughts and he felt very little as he recalled the events of so long ago. So very long ago it had been, after all. 1931, was it? 1932? He should remember it, but it was only a fond lump of memories now.

"I told you. Try to call me Felix."

"How many times are you going to change that name, huh? What is this, your fourth one?"

Felix smiled a ghostly smile, lingering over only a small portion of his face and for only a short time. He did not turn to face Luck Gandor. Felix did not need to. After nearly a century with the man as a brother, it was not necessary to do some things any more.

"As many times as it suits me, I guess," he said. His elbow was propped up against the arm rest on the window side of the car, and his wide, mirrored sunglasses masked his eyes from the world beyond the glass. He watched it zoom by, watching all the other cars chugging on their merry way down the freeway. It was a shame that no one rode trains anymore.

"The twenty-first century sure is turning out to be a boring millennium," said Felix. It was all he could say, because it was true. No crime, or at least not like in the golden days. Back then gangsters carried as many guns as they wanted right in the open air on the streets, and the cops did not do anything, because gangsters _were_ the cops. Booze was quick to appear and slow to go, there were no rules and Felix could enjoy his show. But here, in what could be considered the future, it was dull. It was sad, even. Felix was slouched in his seat, fist against his face, staring out the window. He could see the faintest outline of his reflection. Not a day older, indeed.

Luck glanced over at him, only one of his hands on the leather wheel. His face arranged into that quaint smile he normally sported, and he sighed. "Maybe so, but you have to admit that America's come a long way from prohibition. You can buy liquor anywhere now."

"Sure, but wine these days is dry and besides, it's no fun to drink if it's legal."

They both laughed for a moment, but it passed soon enough. It was silent for a moment before Luck had to slam on the breaks to keep from rear-ending the Sudan in front of them. While Luck's body ratcheted forward from inertia, Felix remained slouched in his seat, coolly still.

"These new cars," Luck complained, leaning over his steering wheel, "they're too fast at everything."

"Yeah, could you try to stop pumping the breaks at every stoplight? It makes the ride uncomfortable."

"Well, why don't you drive next time, huh? I hate cramming myself into these tiny sports cars anyway. Whatever happened to those roomy Cadillacs they used to make?"

Then the conversation trailed away and dwindled into silence. Felix turned up the stereo dial, listened, then cranked it down again. The music in this time was bad too.

"So how's Chane?" Luck asked, continuing the conversation. Felix sat back against his seat and his face contorted gently, subtly, into the face of one plagued by only the most potent spells of love.

"She's great. Up in France pursuing a career in clothing design. Starting a line of dresses with weapon straps, actually." He grinned wider at the sight of her in that white dress, glowing in the darkness of the warehouse. He knew she was the one the first time he laid eyes on her that day in the station.

Luck chuckled and made a sharp right turn that slammed Felix into the window.

"Hey, easy! I told you to stop doing that!"

"It's these cars, Claire. What can I do?"

"Pull over, I'm starved. And at least _try_ and call me Felix, okay?"


	2. 1938: In Which Ladd Russo Kills

Here's chapter 2. ^^ This is when we jump to 1938 with none other than Ladd Russo. :P Enjoy!

* * *

-1938-

Ladd Russo wondered quietly to himself just what he would have to do to kill Claire Stanfield. How hard would it be? Lua had been involved, regrettably, the first time. With her safely tucked away, it would be just Claire and Ladd himself.

That stupid Claire.

Thought he was invulnerable. Thought he would never die.

What a schmuck.

How Ladd would enjoy wiping the walls with his blood. Vino, the assassin, would finally bleed his own death. And Ladd suspected he would bleed more beautifully than all the others. He was the ultimate murder. Possibly the only man alive who truly believed he would never die. It would be pure ecstasy to see it. To see Vino plastered in sheer gore upon the walls. In fact, it would please Ladd more than anything else to blow a hole in the chest, reach in, and rip out and eat the heart of Claire Stanfield. Claire was the only man alive to have crossed Ladd so courageously, to have the gall to say such things to him.

There was only one problem.

Ladd was sitting in prison, his butt resting on the grimy prison bench behind the iron bars, long rusted and damp from the rain that always seemed to pelt the island. Ladd both respected the architect of Alcatraz, and desperately wished to wrap a hand around his neck and squeeze ever so slowly, gloriously, feeling the warmth of the blood wash over his fingers as death passed over the victim. Upon Alcatraz Island, it would not be easy to get to Claire. Unless, with some ridiculously amazing luck, the red-head was thrown in there with Ladd as a jail-mate. Ladd doubted that though. Even his highest level of optimism couldn't bring him to believe that.

It was sad.

It was dreadfully and incredibly sad to know that he would never kill Vino himself. No. And it was equally depressing to realize that the assassin was far too talented to be murdered conventionally. Only Ladd himself had the possible power to wring every last drop of life from Vino's lips, and by the time Ladd got out of the wretched Alcatraz, it would be too late to fully enjoy the death.

Or would it? Would it be so hard, so incredibly hard, to slip out of the cage in which he had been encased? Would it? How could it be? He was Ladd Russo. _Ladd. Russo_. Who would dare keep him here against his own will? Who would do that, and live on to tell their grandchildren that they had once imprisoned the great Ladd?

None.

None would live to tell this tale, for Ladd would take them all. He would take them all to a magical place where they only lived to feel pain, and wished for death to have mercy upon them, and swallow them into a black nothingness. He would make them all wish that they had never been born.

"Hey, Russo," Ladd heard the guard calling from the hallway, the heavy boots splishing and thudding down the stony hall. The reverberations echoed into nearby stalls. The only responses were groaning, and perhaps a shriek from one of the older inmates. People went crazy in here, but Ladd would keep his head. He was already nuts. There wasn't much more they could do to him in here.

Taking a deep breath, Ladd flung himself upon the scummy floor, and mustered the loudest scream he could produce. He wrapped his hands around his stomach, rocking back and forth, sobbing and screaming, and carrying on as any man in severe pain would. The guard, predictably, came running. He threw himself at the door, blocking the light, appearing as a silhouette against the bars.

"What are you whining about?" he yelled to Ladd. There was a twinge of panic in his voice. "You're going to get the others worked up! Shut up!"

"It burns! Oh God, it _burns!_ I can feel it! _Make it stop!_" Ladd sobbed it out, gasping and shaking. He convulsed and the guard's face went pallid.

"What? What is it?"

"_MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STOP!"_

The guard had heard about Ladd Russo's reputation, and he knew from observing Ladd over the past few years that the psychotic blond would not indulge in such pain if it was his own. Ladd was not one to injure himself. He injured others. He took pleasure in that. He was a sadistic man. Therefore, this level of torture to himself could only be real, be dangerous. And while a prisoner, Ladd still had the right to a doctor. The guard began fumbling with the keys.

"Okay, okay! J-Just calm down! I'm-I'm coming!"

"Please," Ladd was whimpering. He was dying. "Please. Please. Please. Please."

The guard rushed in, kneeled, and Ladd snatched his neck and squeezed. Ladd began to smile.

"Please, tell me you didn't fall for that? Oh, you did? Really? Oh, how cute! That's just priceless," Ladd said, chatting to guard in the tone he would reserve for a reunion with a far-away friend. "You really should watch your back, kid. I'll getcha when you least ex_pect_ it."

Blood leaked from the guard's nose onto the floor. The boy was about twenty-four, with a young girlfriend in Dallas and had flunked out of law school. The man hadn't had a thought about death in his head, had thought that after a few years of Alcatraz security, he would live on and reach a ripe age. This is what Ladd loved the most about the man. He had never seen it coming. Watching blood slither upon the floor, he smiled, and thought of the Rail Tracer.

Ladd wanted Vino's blood in both their mouths, on both their hands. Ladd wanted it everywhere. He wanted to paint with it, play in the puddles it made, and then Ladd wanted to lift the innards and show Vino what they were as the assassin died. Ladd chuckled as he sat up, palms pressing to the grimy brick on the floor.

"Glorious," he said, closing his eyes. "Simply glorious."

His hands dabbled in the blood of the guard, pressing his palm to the thick warmth, the puddles. He painted, as a child would with pastels, upon the ground of the cell. Blood made such a lovely paint, made such beautiful pictures. To paint with blood was to paint with the waning life of another, and nothing was as sweet as this. Nothing.

He traced words upon the floor, reading them quietly to himself as he stroked his chin, staining his skin with the blood.

"I will paint with you, Rail Tracer. I will decorate this city with what remains."


	3. 1937: In Which Claire Proposes Again

-1937-

"Marry me," he said.

She continued walking.

"Come on, marry me. You know you want to."

She waved a dainty hand in the air, as if to shoo him away.

"Oh, now you're just being smart, ain'tcha? Come on, Chane. Marry me." He caught her hand with his own, as gentle as he could be. He may strip the muscle from the arms of the unjust, but he could be sweet, polite and dashing should he have the chance to be. But nothing could stop him from being Felix Walken. Claire Stanfield. He would always be Vino. Chane knew this, and found it peculiar, and perhaps slightly insane that she still loved him anyway.

Chane turned to stare into his eyes. It was her only means of communication most of the time. Her ebony hair responded to the wind and swept back, brushing her neck. Claire's own red hair blew in his face, masking his dark eyes from her, and she reached and pushed it back. He took her hand in his, his cheek pressing into her touch. She watched him, and smiled. It was tiny smile, but it made her face so beautiful that Claire became entranced immediately.

"Beautiful," he told her, then leaned forward. His lips endeavored to descend upon hers, but her fingers pressed against them and he stopped, opened his eyes. She was not smiling, but she was not unhappy. She just wasn't ready. Claire was a patient man, but a man of certain thoughts and plans. This world was his own, and he had all the time in it to wait, but the sheer human in him, the mannish impulse to take her into his arms and kiss her until he couldn't breathe, was constantly eating at his mind. Chane knew it too, he would bet his money on it.

He let his forehead rest upon hers, closing his eyes again, his voice soft and close to her.

"All right, then," he said quietly, beginning to smile. Just being with her was wonderful. "If not now, then when?"

_When I say so,_ Chane answered silently. Claire wasn't apt enough, wasn't exactly close enough to sense this soundless answer. When he could do this, when he could come to understand her more than he already did, maybe then she would be ready. Or maybe she just needed more time with him. She would know it when she was ready. There would be a feeling, or a sign. She would know.

Claire opened his eyes and looked into her own, searching for something. Chane speculated he was looking for her answer, but he couldn't find it. Not yet. She turned then, her white dress sweeping the street gently and his skin slipped from her own. Chane glanced back at him, and then held a hand for him to take.

_Come,_ she thought to him. _Come, and I'll take you away from this dreary street._

Claire didn't hear her but her hand was enough. He took it, and then took another. He twirled her down the street and she laughed a laugh of no sound. They danced across the sidewalk under the graying sky, speaking but not speaking, and enjoying every moment.


	4. 1938: In Which Graham and Ladd Scheme

-1938-

"This is an honor. A true honor, Boss Ladd. I can hardly contain this excitement!"

"You may want to, Specter. For your own sake."

Ladd leaned against the flat wall of the garage, his back against the cool metal. He flexed his left arm, the newest addition to his body. He had managed to get it moving; a functional arm. A sweet memento from his first meeting with Vino. The metallic fingers cinched and the "chink" noise the metal made was both pleasing and strange to him. Graham Specter sat among the trash bins in the garage, throwing and catching his wrench as he typically did when thinking. The rusty thing went up, came down, as if on its own accord. Graham had had no doubts that Ladd Russo would escape from Alcatraz. No measure of bars could hold him, no prison could keep him within its grasp for long. Ladd was metal now, like the bars on the jail door, and Graham respected him and feared him quietly.

"You know why I'm here," Ladd said suddenly, smiling as he folded and unfolded his metal fingers, staring at them. Graham was silent for a moment, but Ladd was quick to speak over him before he could respond. "I need a following."

"Right, right," nodded Graham, catching his wrench and flicking his wrist back, so the metal head of the tool reverberated back in the air and clanked against the ground. He slid off his perch upon the garbage cans and leaned against his wrench, as an old man would support himself with a cane. "Any self-respecting gangster needs a decent compilation of underlings, of course. They do your bidding, they follow orders, and they hardly have minds of their own! They're practically dogs! And it makes me wonder, because real dogs are more obedient and hardly require the attention that humans do, so why on earth don't mobsters just have a following of dogs? It's ridiculous."

Graham trailed off as Ladd advanced upon him, took his collar, forcing the young mechanic to bend backwards almost unnaturally in effort to shy away from Ladd. Graham bent to the point of impossibility, then allowed his knees to give, so he merely hung by Ladd's grip on his oiled shirt.

"I should kill you," Ladd said, coiling both his hands around Graham's neck. One of metal, one of skin. He began squeezing, just slowly, but Graham did nothing to restrain him. He stayed quiet, eyes beginning to water as his face tinted shades of darker and darker red. "But," Ladd continued, "I won't, because it wouldn't be any fun."

Graham was released and he slumped to the floor, his wrench clattering from his hand and giving a metallic scream as it hit the ground. He propped himself up with his elbows, taking marshalling breaths.

"Besides," Ladd said with a grin. "You're the first of my following. I prefer humans over dogs, personally." He pressed a boot to Graham's chest, keeping him down as he pressed all his weight there. Graham tightened, grimacing, but said nothing. Ladd leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Because unlike a dog, a human can plead for mercy before I kill him."

There was an awkward silence for a short moment as Ladd continued to suffocate Graham until he finally relented. The moment he removed his foot, Graham gasped a quick breath, then scrambled to his feet. Ladd snatched Graham's beloved wrench before the poor guy could get to it. Ladd tapped it to Graham's left shoulder, voice still low and full of his usual maniacal joy.

"I'm leaving recruiting up to you," he said, continuing to tap Graham's shoulder. "Get me a decent following."

Graham saluted his leader, his role model. His trusted general. "My captain!" said Graham, eyes focused and steely. "O captain, my captain, I will!"


	5. 1937: In Which Claire Owes Firo Money

-1937-

Claire stretched out his arms along the bar, feeling the worn wood beneath his fingers. He'd spent most of his early childhood sitting at bars, always with Luck, trying to laugh as Luck did. He smoothed red hair from his eyes, watching his old friend Keith smirk as he laid down a royal flush for the win. Luck groaned and rubbed his forehead as Berga flung down his cards, swearing that Keith cheated.

While true that Claire had fulfilled his Gandor contract before finding Chane in Manhattan after a long search, he still enjoyed being with them, if not just to hear their voices and recall memories of them. He declined playing cards with them, and thought much of Chane and what it would mean when she accepted his proposal. Claire knew that only he truly existed in the world, controlling his own destiny and deciding on things others believed were out of his control. But with Chane, with the introduction of her into his own world, he would be accepting her existence as well. Did that warrant the acceptance of all existences, or merely hers? He was not necessarily troubled about it, but he wondered to himself when no one was watching him.

"Claire!"

Claire glanced upward to the poker table, being beckoned by an exuberant Firo that had just come in. Keith was shuffling the deck, a cigarette drifting smoke hanging from his mouth. Luck embraced Firo, slapping him on the back a few times, before the young man turned again to Claire.

"Aren't you playing? Ten greenbacks says I whip you," he said. Claire waved him off, smiling as he slid off the bar stool.

"No, I was just about to leave. You whip Luck at poker for me, though." Claire looked down to brush off his black pants, now crummy from sitting on the unclean stool. Then he heard Firo's smug voice again.

"_Twenty_ _bucks_ says you're going to stay."

"Well, you're out twenty bucks," Claire was saying, "because I-" He trailed off as he took his eyes off his pants and saw who had just walked in. Chane. And Chane seemed very, very happy today. He eyed Luck and the gang as they startled whistling at him, but didn't say anything to them. Chane, in a flowing dark blue gown, black Mary Jane's, and a paper white sun hat, was sauntering toward him and he felt a sudden boyish urge to run up and seize her. Claire Stanfield, for an ex-circus artist that mutilated bodies for a living, was relatively inexperienced when it came to true love. He had fallen in love many times, but those were all juvenile loves. He fell in love with this girl's mouth, or that girl's hips, but he fell in love with all of Chane. The way the edges of her lips looked when she was frowning and thinking at the same time, how her dainty hands clutched that knife when she was defending herself. Everything about her was so new to him, so fascinating. He couldn't understand what made him want to be next to her, just being with her, so often. The navy depth of her dress swished at her knees as she clicked in her soft shoes on the wooden floor. Claire remembered buying her that dress after seeing it hanging in the shop. He remembered thinking about how nicely she would compliment it. He remembered giving it to her, watching her be so surprised and pleased at the same time. It was one of the few things that made him happy. She was smiling at him, but not showing her teeth. It was rare to see her smile so broadly.

"You sure seem happy. What's gotten into you?" Claire asked, reaching a hand for her as she drew nearer to him. Without even taking his hand, Chane flung herself into his arms, her body against his, and enclosed her mouth upon his own. In his shock, Claire stumbled backwards from her and caught his back on the bar, but their lips remained connected as his hands grasped for the back of her head.

Firo plopped down in the open chair Luck had pulled up to the table, and crossed his arms, resting his elbows on the wooden surface. "He owes me twenty bucks."

"Like he'll pay you," Luck muttered, sporting his quaint smile. Keith began to flick the cards at the players, dealing them out. All the men ignored Claire and Chane, who only pried apart from one another when Claire slid down the back of the bar onto the floor. He remained sitting there, face a fevered pink from Chane's sudden outburst, his knees bent, boot bottoms to the floor. She kneeled in front of him in between his legs, her hands on his thighs. They stared. She had never kissed him before.

"I take this as an acceptance to my proposal, then," Claire said. His tone was always calm and complacent, as though there was never a surprise in the world that could knock him off his high horse. Her golden eyes watched his brown ones. She suddenly sat back from him and tucked hair behind one of her ears.

_That felt so nice,_ she said inside. _He feels so right. This feels real and good. Why should I still doubt?_

"Why the sudden change of heart?" he asked her, reaching over to pick up her snowy sun-hat from the floor. It had fallen off during their embrace. "I don't think you've ever kissed me before."

_Because of what you've done for me,_ she smiled, closing her eyes and refusing to look at him. _Because of what you are doing to me, you fool. You're making me love you. I never knew I could love beyond Father._

Chane slid her right hand into his, and manipulated him to turn over the hat. Nestled inside were four tickets. Two of the tickets promised a boat ride from New York to Southampton, United Kingdom. And the other two were for a train from there to Paris, France. They were going to France. Chane had found those tickets in her hat earlier that day, pinned to the top. Claire had bought them the day he bought the hat, scheduling the tickets several weeks ahead of time so when she found them, they would still be good. Claire scratched at the back of his head, staring at the tickets.

"So you finally found them, huh? I was wondering when you would. I was starting to get impatient," he said to her. He unpinned them from the hat and lifted them to observe them more closely. "Looks like you found them just in time. We'll have to leave tomorrow-"

He attempted to finish, but Chane caught him again, kssing him with what felt like to him, her whole being. As he fell back against the floor, with her on top of him, he assumed that she loved him with her entire being, just as he loved her, and expressing that love required her to act boldly. Claire felt a surge of weak happiness well up deep down inside somewhere, but it was a wondering joy, one that was confused on what to do, where to go. Love for him was strange and alien, because love was the act of devoting an entire life to another, and how could he do that, if Chane, in essence, did not exist?

Or did she? Did his believing in her existence make her real? His kiss and his undying love make her whole? Her lips left him and his eyes had never closed. He watched her, chest rising and falling.

_You never stop thinking, do you?_ she asked him soundlessly. _Not even when I kiss you. What do you think about? _Chane did not necessarily mind Claire's ideology, his way of living. She worried about him, and wondered what made him into the incredible assassin he was, but would by no means want to change him. As the first to have told her he loved her, there was nothing about him to change. He was perfect, and flawed in all the right places, in her eyes.

She caught Claire's eyes drift towards the tables, and she glanced over to find Luck, Berga and Keith all staring. Firo was fingering the rim of his hat, grinning, his chin resting on his fist.

"Get a room, you two," he said, and tipped his hat back. Luck ruffled his hair, jamming the fedora down on his head. Firo fussed over with it, and Luck turned towards the couple with a smile.

"What's the excitement?"

"We're," Claire started quietly, watching Chane's smile grow more pronounced as he did so, "going to France."

One of my favorite chapters for sure. XD Hope you guys enjoyed! We'll try to update soon! ^^


	6. 1938: In Which Graham Destroys an Eye

-1938-

A line of men, neither too disciplined nor eager, stood side by side in the bleak darkness of Graham's garage. Graham himself was dismantling a car, laughing wildly as he did so, the metal screws and bolts flying in all directions. One projectile launched from the mouth of Graham's wrench and hit one of the men in the eye.

"Oh god! My eye! What the-"

"My bad, my good man. That was my mistake," Graham said, throwing his wrench over his shoulder, and hiking a leg upon the motor of the car, resting the edge of his foot there. The man he had hit was crouched, clutching his face, blood sliding through his fingers. "We'll get you a patch or something."

"For god's sake, man! My _eye!_"

"Why do people feel the need to repeat themselves? I mean, why is that? I heard you the first time, of course, and responded accordingly. What more do you want from me? Repeating yourself just rakes up the past, be it distant or near, and resurfaces the problem. By god, if you want to relive the previous present, if you want to time travel, just continue shouting about your eye! Actually, that's pretty smart, what I just said. Wasn't it? I mean, that's all you need, right? You can successfully return to the past by living in it. So, henceforth, all grudge-holders must have the gift of time travel. That only leaves the problem of how to get to the future, doesn't it?"

The men, including the one with the now-missing eye, just stared at Graham. Most of them knew Graham and had been following him for a while, and understood his interesting logic. Some of the more recent recruits had little to say about it.

"All right," Graham said, slamming his wrench against the ground before tossing it up into the air again. "When Mr. Russo comes in, you all need to stand straight and keep quiet, unless he talks directly to you. And you might want to prepare yourselves to die, as well."

"You mean we're going to _die?_" asked a young brunette who was using the edge of his shirt to try and stave off the blood from the injured eye of the man next to him.

Graham speculated a moment, catching his wrench with a flinch of his wrist and then leaning on it. "Well, not _necessarily_. It is possible though." He paused a moment, then laughed and pointed the rusty head of his wrench at the brunette in an almost dramatic gesture. "The only way to live is to embrace death! Ladd, with his incredible ingenuity, only kills those least expecting it, so expect it!"

The men blankly stared with wide eyes, devoid of most emotion aside from a befuddled fear. The brunette leaned quietly towards his one-eyed friend and whispered, "I think we're screwed."

A shadow streaked the floor of the garage as Ladd stepped into the garage doorway and blocked a portion of the sun. Hands on his hips, his white suit tailored and his prominent jaw arched in a grim smirk, he was an impressive visage. Graham rocketed his wrench into the air, dropped to one knee, and caught the tool with his head hanging down, his bleached hair dangling in his face.

"Big brother," he said, voice trembling. "I have gathered your following."

Ladd stole heavy, lengthy strides towards the line of men, who were beginning to shrink back as a collective unit. They had heard about the likes of Ladd Russo. Wanted by Alcatraz, hiding in plain sight, dodging the authorities as easily as Claire Stanfield dodged a bullet. They were aware of Ladd previous dealing with the assassin, and therefore they held a grain more fear for the red-headed solipsist than they did for the homicidal sadist in front of them. He walked straight up to the bleeding man, pushing the brunette from the injured soul. Saying nothing, Ladd ripped the man's hands from the bloody face, and looked into the carnage that had once been the man's left eye. The eye-ball had burst, leaving the feathered remains of muscle and gelatinous material caked around the socket. Graham's bolt was nestled inside, like an owl in a tree burrow. With his fingers, Ladd reached in and plucked it out, much to the man's agony. All the others watched, the brunette shaking, as Ladd slowly lifted his metal hand. Ladd motioned a "thumbs up" gesture.

"Why not make the other match, huh?" he said, and then grinded his metal digit into the man's good eye. He pressed until it popped, driving the metal back into the man's occipital lobe, then pulling back, Ladd's thumb now dripping with blood, and brain fluid. The man slipped from his grasp and collapsed, twitching and whimpering quietly. The young brunette was staring at his fallen comrade, mouth gaping. Graham stared as well, but more in admiration and awe than anything else.

As Ladd dusted off his hands, smearing blood on his clean suit, he turned towards Graham. "I want to know where this guy is," he said, meaning the notorious Claire. "If I'm right, which it can be assumed that I am, there's a mug over at the Daily Days information center who may know what we're talking about. Bring machine guns, and maybe an explosive. I hear he's tight-lipped."

"Don't you want to come?" Graham inquired. He was still looking at the convulsing, eyeless man bleeding upon the garage floor. The brunette had dropped to his knees, face in his hands.

"You idiot. The cops are looking for me, remember? The Daily Days would sell me out in a second, for a price, regardless."


	7. 1939: In Which Chane and Felix Ride Home

This is one of my favorite chapters. ^^ Claire and Chane finally have their wedding! XD

-1939-

The wedding was small. Claire had no use for any religion, but Chane wanted a traditional ceremony, and Claire had no qualms with it. It was a private celebration, in a traveler's chapel with only three small pews, carpeted in red. Chane wore her white dress, the one he had purchased for her a few years back, and he was forced into a suit by Luck, who insisted upon it. Claire had nothing against it, but if it were left up to him, he wouldn't have chosen a tuxedo. The idea of being married appealed to him more than anything. To heck with the cumbersome extras, he just wanted to be with Chane, make it understood to the world that she and he were each other's own. That was all that mattered to him.

The formalities were conducted in French, due to their being in France at the time. They had left America in the December of '37, and spent most of the following year traveling upon trains, watching the world and wondering about their own. The Gandors didn't make it up for the wedding, but Luck did send a letter with congratulations, and a request that Claire wear a suit. The letter arrived a few weeks before the wedding, prior to Claire's announcement that they were even having a wedding at all. Luck just knew. Luck knew Claire and Chane's love well enough to expect a French wedding at some point.

So they were married. Of course, the matter of Claire's name had to be sorted out. He ended up purchasing the name Felix Walken from a particularly notorious assassin who had recently retired. The matter of buying the rights to the name, and then finalizing the American transaction while in France before again making the leap in business negotiations from American to French ground was partially the reason why the wedding was delayed for a year. Chane was patient, however, and complained not once by voice or by action. She delighted in being with her fiancé, now her husband, regardless of his name or what stage of the bureaucracy of marriage they were mired in. Their love was boundless, nameless and infinite, and that was what made it special.

After the wedding, Chane promptly decided it was time to return home. Many things had happened in France, most of them terribly exciting and joyous, but there was a longing for the streets of New York in her heart, mostly because she could see it in his eyes. He missed it. He missed Luck and the Gandors, his only family, and the smell of the liquor served on the streets and under them. He would never admit, not even to himself, but Chane had a feeling, a feminine one, that he would be relieved to return home. They boarded the train on the first of January on a cold and bitter morning, the first day of the year of 1939. And it was then, on the train from Paris back to Southampton to catch the boat to New York, when she asked him.

"Kids? Like babies?" He answered, staring at the notepad she had written on. He handed it back to her, and she took it, but waited, staring, as though she expected more from him than that. Felix looked out the window for a time, and then glanced over at her again, to find that she was still staring. "Well, what about them? Sure, they're great. Why?"

Chane inhaled deeply, but very quietly, and let it out slowly as she bent over her notepad to write. She held it up to his face.

_Do you want any? _it said. It was a sheepish, slightly awkward way to ask the question, but it was important to her. She knew much about Felix, could read him as easily as he was learning to read her, but there were many things she would never understand about him. Chane needed his answer on this question, this subject. She would never know otherwise.

Felix watched the words, as though half-expecting them to come alive. "Well," he began, leaning back in his seat. "Not really. I've never really thought about them. Most of my thoughts revolve around you, you know."

His off-handed compliment flattered her to an extent, because his tone was always honest. Felix was incapable of complimenting merely to boost self-esteem. Everything that he said was painfully true, for he had no incentive to lie. She would always trust him in that regard.

A silence descended over them for the remainder of the train ride, and the cruise home was relatively quiet as well. Of course, they made sure to have a honeymoon while riding back to New York. It was a bizarre experience for the both of them, for neither paid much attention to intense romantic endeavors, but Chane had to admit to herself that their nights upon the boat were unbelievably wonderful. Felix was quite the man.


	8. 1938: In Which Graham Consults Luck

-1938-

"I already told you! I don't want anything to do with that guy! You'll have to get your information somewhere else!"

"Don't make me break you, you smug little stool pigeon. This wrench isn't just for fixing things, after all."

Nicholas was jacked up against his informational counter, the mouth of the wrench extended to the point in which it could fit around his neck. Graham, his eyes grave and cold, was slowly tightening it.

"Where is the assassin Vino?" he shouted, ratcheting the wrench another notch. Nicholas squirmed, eyeing the machine guns trained on his staff, which was standing, hands in the air, at the back. It felt like this happened more often nowadays.

"I told you, I don't carry that kind of information! Go ask the Gandors! They have dealings with him!"

"Is that so?" Graham asked, twisting the wrench another level. Nicholas choked, beginning to raise his voice. This kind of treatment was hardly in the job description. Maybe it could be expected, but there was no reason to go after the messenger.

"Yes, yes! You can find them easily! I know where they are! They'll know more than me, I swear!"

"Promise?"

"Yes, yes! Yes!"

* * *

Graham and a gathering of his flunkies stood on the stoop of the Gandor headquarters. The family was well known for winning the turf war in the local area, and it wasn't hard to locate them after extracting the information from Nicholas on who they were. Graham had reluctantly decided to spare his intellectual tirades in favor of saving them for the Gandors, and the fact the Ladd had cautioned them to be quick. Ever since Ladd jumped off the train willingly that night on the _Flying Pussyfoot_, his insatiable need to murder Vino grew day by day into a consuming force. Now that the Russo was free to a degree, living in a world with no bars, there was little containment to hold him back. Ladd, to his utmost suffering and despairing distress, was deferring from killing large numbers of people, due to the fact that the cops were just waiting to spring on him at any moment. Graham sympathized with him, or at least tried to.

Wielding his wrench high in the air, he let it crash the door, breaking it off the hinges. Keith, Luck and Berga, playing their usual bout of cards, glanced up at the sudden disturbance. Graham pointed his wrench at their table.

"Gandor brothers!"

"What the big idea, breaking our door like that?" asked Luck. He stood up, smiling, his voice even. Berga's hand clenched his cards, bending them easily.

"Where is the assassin Vino? We have business with him, unfortunately. Is he in?"

Keith raised an eyebrow, bridging the deck.

"You see," continued Graham, when no one said anything, "My employer, superior to Vino and subsequently everyone below him, has a qualm that needs to be addressed as soon as possible. It's imperative that this happens soon, actually. He's growing restless with desire. Oh, well that sounded awkward, didn't it? By desire, I mean the lust to kill, not any sort of romantic involvement. How ironic, that love and death be so connected when they are such opposites in context. But then again, opposites attract. Does that apply to this concept? That would make sense of why those in love are constantly ready to kill each other, and those that express hate openly to one another usually end up in love. That is true, isn't it? I've never had a wife, but I'm sure I'd be ready at a moment's notice to break her apart out of love… What was I saying again?"

The Gandors stared at Graham, seemingly numbed by the nonsensical argument being presented to them, until Luck said, "I'm not exactly sure."

No one said anything for another minute, until one of Graham's recruits coughed, trying to repress the sound. That seemed to jolt Graham's memory.

"Nevertheless," he said, tossing his wrench and catching it again. "Regardless of what point I was making, we need the assassin Vino's whereabouts immediately."

Luck knew Claire very well. He was his brother, in a way, his family. And while Claire was not exactly immortal in the way the Gandors were, able to sustain physical damage and recover instantly, Claire had immortality about him. Luck never understood Claire's ideology, but he accepted it, and he was confident that nothing would ever touch his dear brother, physical, mental or emotional. That's why it came as such a surprise that Claire would fall so fully in love with Chane, wait for her, and marry her. Luck had always seen Claire as above much of humanity, and human want. There was no fear in his mind, no reason that he could see not to tell them of Claire, if not just to get them to leave the rest of his family alone.

"He's in France, but we've received word that he's coming home within the month," he told Graham, putting his hands into his pockets.

Graham hefted his wrench over his shoulder after catching it, and smiled. "Oh, splendid! My employer will be pleased. May I ask what he was doing in France?"

"May I ask who has dealings with him?"

Graham, while sworn to secrecy on the subject, could hardly miss the opportunity to reveal the identity of his illustrious big brother. "Ladd Russo, naturally. The only man powerful enough to assassinate the assassin!" He flung his wrench suddenly, thwacking Keith in the head and knocking him out of the chair. "Oh, well that wasn't intentional. Sorry. Moving on, Boss Ladd seeks revenge against the scum Vino for defeating him unfairly upon their last meeting."

Berga was fuming, standing up, fists drawn. Luck stalled him by holding out a hand, offering the other to Keith. Graham was mildly surprised at discovering not a scratch was on him. That wrench had been thrown hard enough to take off his head.

"I assure you, mister, Claire doesn't defeat anybody unfairly," Luck commented as he picked up the wrench. "And I think this Ladd guy lost deservingly."

Graham's demeanor changed instantly, and he lunged for Luck, screaming, "Boss Ladd Russo loses to _no one!_ How _dare_ you say that!"

Luck danced out of Graham's path, lobbing the wrench towards the front entrance. Due to the lack of door, the wrench flew right through the opening, and down into the street. "Look, we don't want any trouble, so just leave before you make a mistake."

"Mistake?" asked Graham. Pointing at the crowd of gangsters around the table, he turned his head to his followers. "Shoot them! Break them into millions of tiny pieces! I want their bodies strewn across this bar, not a piece of them left stacked one upon the other!"

The thunder wave of gunshots pulsed the barroom, and the brothers were throttled with the metal. Blood fire-hosed in all directions, coating the walls with the fine, salty paint of the body, muralling the room in red, and Graham could not stop laughing as he watched it. With the carnage sufficient, Graham turned his back on it, and stepped down on the stoop to pick up his trusty wrench.

"No one may speak about the boss like that and live. I love the boss, and I will murder for him. Love and death truly are connected, because those who love hard enough will slaughter innocents in the works for that love. It proves that the old cliché of love conquering all really is true, proven true by the bloodshed for it." He smiled, smoothing blond hair from his eye, only to have it fall back in place. "Those fools who love nothing. Those without love must truly be the weakest of them all."

"Hey, boss!" was the shaking cry of a follower, as a mass of scrambling began inside. "Y-You better get in here!"

"Why would you interrupt me when I was in the middle of an important discovery? I was making history back there-" Graham paused as he saw the last pints of blood get sucked from the walls and absorbed by the respective bodies of the Gandors. One by one, like buildings rebuilt, they stood, their clothes ragged with holes.

"That was a pretty big mistake," whispered Luck. His voice was deep, the smile gone from him. Graham's eyes remained wide, his body still. No one had ever told him about this kind of power, of immortality. His hands tightened on his wrench, and he swallowed.


	9. 1939: In Which Vino Faces Graham

-1939-

Felix pulled himself skyward for another chin-up. He announced his count in his head. 78…79…80. Only 40 to go. Since his contract with the Gandors dissolved a few years back, his assassination identity had fizzled quietly from a bonfire to a low, flickering flame. Not that he minded, actually. It was never his original intention to become a notorious killer. He just did what suited him. If killing someone suited his interest at the time, he had no problem with it, but if it didn't, why not let them live?

94…95…96…97.

He and Chane were renting an apartment in Manhattan, fittingly where she had promised she would wait after their first meeting. It was a comfortable flat, clean though worn from previous use. A nicely sized bedroom with a small bath, a decent living space and a sweet little kitchen. Settling down had never been in his equation, but Felix didn't mind it much. It was under rent, so that he and Chane could pick up and head out, cutting off all strings attached relatively painlessly. He and Chane were hardly home anyway. She was employed at a nearby hat shop, enjoying the stuffy, cozy atmosphere and learning to use her hands in another way. She was a fantastic huntress, slicing open souls with her knives, but she had a gentle edge, and could cook a meal just as easily.

Felix occasionally alighted from the apartment to ride rails from New York to Memphis to Salt Lake City and beyond, returning home within the week to find Chane self-sustaining and pleased. They were independent, yet conjoined. They would always be together, but could stand being apart.

114…115…116…

He wondered what he would do, though. Perhaps he would search the streets for a hobby. He could sit still easily, but not for more than a few moments. He would need an occupation soon. Perhaps another train trip.

119…120…

Felix let go of the bar that he had mounted in the high, living room archway, and landed effortlessly onto the floor. He wiped the minimal sweat from his brow. Glancing at the clock, he noted the time and knew Chane would be returning home, another day's work under her belt. He washed his face at the sink in the bathroom, wanting to at least appear clean when she arrived. It still reeked of last night's dinner, much to what would be Chane's disappointment. She had gotten up in the middle of the night, her stomach bothering her, and thrown up several times. Felix had woken at her movement from the bed, and listened to her, before getting up and wandering into the bathroom to check. She had waved him off, but he didn't leave until she was safely back in bed. He had toyed with the idea of calling a physician, but then decided that she was a big girl and would take care of that herself, should she need it. He didn't know much about the doctor business, because he had never needed it, at least not since his very early childhood, when he contracted scarlet fever. But that was a long time ago, and he had neither the use nor time for a doctor any more. He would never die, and the only sicknesses he would ever contract would be those that he wished to.

His thoughts trailed off as he, while tossing a paper towel into the waste bin, noticed something peculiar. He felt something was off, or at least unnatural. It was a feeling he usually felt in the early stirrings of the transition of the Rail Tracer, before he decided that justice would be served against those who killed innocents wrongly.

Felix suddenly felt like going for a walk, for he felt as though he would find the reason for his cautionary feelings along the way. Taking his coat from the hook near the bedroom door, not bothering to change from his thin exercising garments, he slipped in the black trench and left, not locking the door, and trailed down the stairs into the open air. He bumped into someone at the stoop almost immediately.

"Oh, excuse me," he said. Pausing, standing there, he waited for the man to step aside. The stoop was narrow, suited for only one way traffic, so one of them would have to relent, and Felix Walken was not one to do so. "You mind moving?"

The figure was obscured by dark clothing, hiding his face from the light with a gloved hand. His voice betrayed his appearance, for it was shaky and thin. He was afraid. "Y-Your wife," he stuttered.

"Yeah, what about her?" Felix asked. His tone was mild, unsurprised. He was confident that Chane could handle a thug or two.

The figure only pointed with a trembling hand down the street, towards a Chane that was disappearing behind a corner. Felix thought this was odd, because he and Chane had not come to know anyone in Manhattan just yet, and he wondered how the man in front of him could identify her. It was also curious that she would be wondering around back alleyways.

"Oh, thanks," Felix said to him, before negligently shoving the man aside and over the edge of the stoop so he could follow Chane. The man flipped back over the guard rail to the stairs and clattered on the concrete behind, relatively unharmed. He would not move until Felix had crossed the street and disappeared behind the corner. Afterwards, the man pulled off his hat, breathing with shallow gasps and shivering. It was the young brunette, one of Graham's followers, who had come to fear the famous Vino more than he did Graham, though less than that of Ladd, who terrified him. He was given instructions to wait at the stoop until Vino came out, which they assumed would be after the realization that Chane wasn't home yet. Vino appeared early, and nearly frightened the brunette witless.

Upon rounding the corner, Felix found himself in an odd place. He was finding himself in odd places lately. Chane was being held at gunpoint against the brick wall of the dank alley by several members of a motley crew. The leader of the crew was one he recognized. The blond with the wrench who was determined that Ladd Russo was the undisputed better of Felix Walken. It was somewhat of a replay of past events, for this was not the first time Graham had put Chane in danger of being killed.

"I don't think you want to do this," Felix told them all matter-of-factly.

"Welcome to time travel, Vino! Welcome! Does this seem familiar? A beautiful, dark, mysterious woman, imprisoned by the witty mechanic and his friends? Hm? Recognize the story? I believe we've told it before."

Felix watched nothing but Chane, searching her eyes, and he replied with a tone of amusement. "What happened to your nose?"

Graham tossed his wrench and caught it, before beginning to twirl it absently. His eyes were blackened, the area around his nose swollen and caked in blood, but he still had much dignity. "You can credit your brothers with that, actually. Quite the group of men."

Felix could hardly repress a mild snort of laughter, and Graham noted it, insulted as he pointed the head of his wrench at Felix. "Another sound and we'll break her to bits. You wouldn't want your love to be overcome by death, would you?" He waltzed over to Chane, taking her cheeks in his hands. "Such a vision of loveliness, dashed into blocks of bloody matter because of your lack of cooperation. What a sad, sad tale. I should write a book about it."

Felix noticeably tightened, but his tone scarcely changed. "I think you should keep your hands to yourself, if you still want them attached to your body by the end of this."

Graham did not rise to the threat. He had learned once before that Vino, assassin and gymnast, would easily kill and without hesitation. The only man capable of dispelling Vino's sense of invulnerability was Ladd. It was pure fact.

"I did not come to fight you. I am merely the tool," said Graham, holding his wrench like an axe over his shoulder. "I was instructed by my superior to bring you here, and I have. I have successfully recreated the past, placing you in a situation perhaps a little more pressing than before." He nodded his head, and the flunkies unhinged the safety from their guns. Chane's hands were behind her, and Felix was certain that she was preparing to fight them. His belief that he would never die was true of himself, but he was unsure if Chane was as invulnerable as he. She was strong, but bringing a knife to a gun fight was foolish, and he narrowed his eyes to caution her against it. He would take care of this. She stared at him, and he was unsure of whether she was going to take his advice or not. Graham stroked her cheek, and she glared at him, flicking her face away from him. "Only loyal to your love over there, hm? What a good wife. She must be a good wife," he said, looking over at Felix.

"You may have not come here to fight me, but it looks like your trying to pick one. If you don't want to be involved, that's fine, but if you touch her again, I'm going to have to kill you," Felix announced, gravely. There was a stirring in the back alley.

"No need," Graham grinned. He stepped aside, and the guns urged Chane to follow him. "He's arrived."


	10. 1938: In Which Chane Insists

-1938-

Huey LaForet watched the window in his cell, closing his eyes when he wished no longer to see it. _What do you mean, "getting married?" To whom?_

_To the one whom I love, Father,_ Chane replied to him while sitting in a chair of heavy cloth in her apartment. She was watching Felix, who had dozed into a light sleep after eating three large portions of spaghetti. He was sitting in the chair opposite to her, head lulling at his chest. The radio droned, humming in the background. A faint jazz orchestra could just be detected over the static.

_And who is this one? I thought I was the only one you loved._

_ I do love you, Father. Very much. But I have found love in another. Is that so wrong?_

_ You are my daughter, Chane. A father cannot easily release his daughter to another man. When is the wedding?_

_ We are planning on celebrating three nights from now. We are in France, so it will be a French wedding._

_ Fitting that you should return to the Mother Country for this._

_ You sound bitter. Why are you upset with me? This is what a woman does when she grows up, yes?_

_ Perhaps other women._

Her hands cinched around her thread and needle. She had purchased her first sewing kit a few days before, and was learning from an old French maiden near their flat. Chane was able to stitch up tears and such, but not much beyond that. She jabbed the needle into the clothing. One of Felix's shirts was ripped at the elbow.

_There is little that I know about people, and they often confuse me. But I am learning how to live in this world, and to trust another. Is this not what you want for me? To be happy?_

_ Your happiness was never much of a concern to me, Chane. _Huey admitted it quietly, as though it was an afterthought that he himself was just discovering. She was born as an experiment, meant to be observed and studied upon. Chane was never supposed to become something beyond that. It was not expected of her, nor did it seem practical. She was becoming less of an experiment and more of an individual, and that was threatening him.

_Do I not deserve this, Father? After what I have done, out of dedication and love for you, am I not allowed at least a husband?_

_ Do not pretend you did not do those things of your own will, Chane. You wanted to do things for me. There was neither a doubt in your heart, nor hesitation in your action._

This was true, and Chane searched in herself and found not a rebuttal against it. Her focus drifted to Felix, watching his chest press against the fabric of his shirt as he breathed. His face had taken on a slightly troubled expression, and she assumed that he thought even as he slept. Huey's voice echoed against the empty air.

_Chane? Are you listening to me?_

She would not talk to him. She would be silent in thought, as well as voice.

_Do not tell me you are regretting what you have done! You would give away your hearing, your sight, even your life for me. That is how much you love me._

_ I would give my life for him, too._

Now it was Huey's turn to remain silent. He was now staring at the ground, fists closed and taut, resting on his thighs. _Pardon me?_

_ You are not the only one I now sacrifice for. I may have given you my voice, but I will offer him my eyes, my ears, my heart and my entire being, if that is what he wants from me. I will do it willingly just as I have done for you._

Huey was stunned, if just for a moment. What an interesting turn in his little experiment. It was almost as if she was rebelling, if only in a very small way.

_And what made me love him, Father,_ she thought to him, ripping the edge of the thread from Felix's shirt, _is the knowledge that while he knows what lengths I would go to in order to please him, he would never ask a sacrifice from me._

_ I have never asked _anything_ from you, Chane._

_ You did not allow me to finish, Father._

_What more is there to say? You will not finish should I not wish it. Respect me._

_ What makes me love him is that he will sacrifice for me, in return. He will sacrifice. You, Father, will never do that for me. Not ever._

Neither one of them said anything after that. Huey never replied to that statement, and Chane ceased to care. She was shaking all over, feeling cold. She had never spoken to Huey in that way before, but her love for Felix was so strong, so true, that it scorned her to think that her father would deny her of this one vice.

Felix's leg, propped up on the edge of the coffee table, slipped off the edge and he awoke instantly, eyes snapping open. He was seldom groggy when waking. Chane had learned that her future husband had two settings: awake or asleep, and never in between. Felix stared without blinking for a moment, as though gathering his bearings, before catching Chane's eye.

"Something the matter?" he asked. He straightened himself up in the chair, running a hand through his red hair. "You look worried."

She cleared her face before smiling, and then shaking her head. She spoke to him, and he couldn't hear her. _No, dear. Nothing the matter at all._


	11. 1939: In Which Felix Becomes Agitated

Just a slight warning. This is a very violent and bloody chapter. Claire got a little crazy. XD

* * *

-1939-

Ladd Russo relished the moment he stepped into the light of the alley. He could see Chane, his skilled adversary that was interrupted by the red-headed fool now standing at the mouth of the narrow alcove.

"Long time, no see," he said, opening his arms, as if to give Felix a familiar welcome. "Remember me?"

"Yeah, you're the yutz that jumped off the train. Aren't you supposed to be in Alcatraz?"

"I'm off for good behavior."

"Somehow, I feel like that's an overstatement."

"I've wanted to kill you since that day, you know. I've wanted to squeeze you out, like paste, and make you wish that you were dead. Make you eat yourself alive just to end the suffering."

"My, you're a direct man, aren't you? You're really holding a grudge."

"You bet I am. And this is going to be the highlight of my day, honestly. To kill someone who professes a lifestyle of never dying is too delicious to even imagine! Listen to me, getting all excited about it. You have the honor of being the finest murder I've ever committed."

"Lucky me," Felix said. His sarcasm was there, just undetected due to the lack of satirical tone. "As much as I'd love to make your fantasy come true, Russo, I have no intention of fighting you. I'd like my wife back, and then I'd be glad to just go on my merry way."

"Too bad." Ladd lunged for Felix, who turned and ran to the brick wall of the alley. Without even removing his hands from his pockets, he ran up the wall and back-flipped behind Ladd. Felix admitted to himself, dodging another manic blow from Ladd, that the man was pretty good. He didn't have the agility or the willpower however, to ever come close to Felix's level of combat. It went one for whole minutes. Ladd would strike, Felix would flip and doge. Ladd would lunge, Felix would twist, stick a landing, and remain untouched. Ladd on the offensive, Claire on the defensive. It was constant, and it was infuriating Ladd to the point of utter insanity.

"Hold still and fight, coward! Of course you won't die, because no one can get his hands on you!" Ladd screamed. His words were weak against Felix, but his metal arm had strength as he attempted to nail his opponent in the face. Felix ducked and did a one handed cartwheel to the left, smoothing back his hair with a grin. He was very near close to Chane. He could turn, reach out and touch her. The men with the guns were literally a hair's length from him, guns trained on Felix's wife.

"If I were to shoot you, you would die! Your guts would be scattered in this alley, and you would be crying for me to stop, and I would crush your head, and squeeze the juice out of your brain while you begged. It would be beautiful."

"Guns can't touch me. Nothing can. Nothing will ever kill me because I don't want it to. Don't you remember what I told you?"

"Shut up! Fight me! Stop jumping around and _fight me!"_

"I'm sorry, but I just don't feel like it."

Ladd's smile hardened and his eyes sifted Graham out of the crowd. Graham was avidly involved with the action; he had been following Ladd's movements every step of the way. It frustrated him, just as it frustrated Ladd, that Vino refused to hold still. It was disgraceful. He was a disgrace to the art of combat. Graham's hands twitched, holding tightly to his wrench. He wanted so badly to intervene, so badly to hurt Vino over and over, for Ladd. But Ladd wouldn't want that. He had been waiting for years to kill Vino himself, and he would kill Graham before letting him get in the way of it. But then again, Ladd was staring at him, like he wanted something. Graham didn't know what Ladd could have wanted, as his boss stood there, his breathing deep, his fists poised to strike. But then, reaching into his pocket, Ladd pulled out a handgun. Chane made a sudden flinch for her husband, and was thrown back against the wall with a gun.

"Hey!" It was the first time that Felix had shouted at them or sounded at all annoyed, for that matter. His eyes fell to Chane, staring firmly, assessing that she was all right. The alley was nearly quiet, save for the heavy breathing of a few nervous gunmen. "None of you are involved in this fight. Touch her again, and I'll be sure to include you."

Ladd was clicking off the safety, training the gun at Felix. No matter how invulnerable he believed he was, no matter how untouchable his world was, Chane could not force herself to believe that a gunshot to the back would not bleed. That he would live after a shot to the brain. She could not scream to warn him. Ladd's grin was a product of a deranged mind.

Perhaps, had she let her husband be, keeping him free to choose his course of action, he would have dodged at the last minute. And most likely, in the case of his being shot, Felix would have only been shot in the leg or arm, but Ladd so clearly wanted to make him suffer. But whatever the alternate endings, Chane would never know, for she committed an act out of love and was unable to look back on what would have become of him otherwise.

She outstretched a pale, smooth leg, and swept Felix's feet out from under him. Like any human being, maybe superhuman but still human, he went down. The bullet just skimmed over him as he landed on all fours, hands and feet to the stone street, belly to the air, like an inverted cat. Chane folded in on herself, a burning pain embedding into her arm. Warmth poured from it, down her dress, and down onto the ground. Blood.

Felix, mouth slightly open, eyes wide, was having trouble believing what had just happened. He could see it, the blood, just leaking out of her. She was wilting, like a fragile flower. That's what it looked like to him. And he hated himself, if only for a fleeting moment, because she could have blocked that with her knife had he not been such a chauvinist and told her to not to keep it on hand. It never occurred to him that it could have been him bleeding, him in pain. Not once. He only saw his gorgeous wife in pain at the hands of a man whom he now had an iron hate for. Slowly, Felix rose to his feet.

"Finally," Ladd said, reaching forward and taking Felix's collar into his hands, yanking the red-head's face towards his own. "Are you going to stop running now?"

"You realize," was the quiet reply, devoid of any emotion that would have normally been present, "that I am going to have to kill you now."

Felix made Ladd laugh, his grip tightening around the man's clothing. The shake of his hands, the breathy tone to his voice, manifested the want that Ladd felt. Ladd truly believed he was going to murder the man he had always wanted to.

"Ha! I'd like to see that-"

Felix wasn't feeling very generous, and therefore did not allow Ladd the pleasure of finishing his statement. Felix's hands went to Ladd's, grabbed them, and then shoved back but continued hanging on, as if they were swing dancing. Felix took his legs, ran up Ladd's body, his heavy boots crushing against Ladd's face, grinding his heels into Ladd's forehead and kicking back, flipping his body backwards into the air and taking Ladd with him. With the force behind Ladd's body, manipulating inertia to keep their aerial revolution going, Felix slammed Ladd onto the ground, back to the brick road, Felix ending up standing upon him. It all happened so quickly, in such a smooth motion, that neither Graham nor Ladd hardly knew what had happened until Felix was straddled upon Ladd, his legs pinning down Ladd's arms.

"You just _had_ to do it, didn't you?" Felix said, smiling a ghostly smile. The voice was empty, quiet. It had not changed from his earlier tone. There was little variation to Felix. "You just _had_ to make me want to kill you."

Graham, wrench hanging loosely from his grasp, watched as Felix, instead of punching Ladd, began to dig his fingernails into the skin at Ladd's neck, eventually peeling it back, like a Velcro flap. He began to tear it from the neck to the torso, just a long strip of skin being ripped away. The sound of it was horrifying, it was unnatural. Felix then reached for Ladd's ear, and ripped it off, then ripped off the other. Everywhere there was an appendage to pull away, Felix found it, and Ladd get bloodier and bloodier, more and more distorted. His face hollowed and discolored. How could this happen? How could this be possible? What demon possessed that cursed, red-headed assassin, to make him battle as he did? Unacceptable.

Ladd managed to free his arms, and clench his hands around Felix's wrists to keep him from doing any further damage. His grip was constricting, squeezing at the thin bones there, meaning to snap them, but the bones were strong, thick from years of work, and Felix, in his frenzy, felt no pain at Ladd's attempt. What Felix did feel was the gristly pleasure of yanking his arms back, causing Ladd to bend up into a sitting position, and then using his knees to press against the sides of Ladd's head, compressing him, trying to create such pressure as to rupture blood vessels in the brain. Blood was flicking out from Ladd's eyes every time he blinked.

Graham's hands were shaking, voice having died in his throat. He loved Ladd, felt compassion for his idol, his big brother whom he considered above all others. Graham thought like Ladd, felt like him, had a complex to kill akin to his. He raised his wrench above his head, the metal tool rusty and weighed down with the many deaths it had caused.

"I will kill in the name of love! You will die for this, die!" His voice was husked out, beaten down and nearly desperate in cadence. Felix, with a bleak countenance upon his features, rolled to the side again and dragged Ladd along with him, just as the wrench descended. With a squirt of blood, a crack, and a then a suckling squelch, the edge of the wrench handle was embedded in the back of Ladd Russo. Graham winced back from his deed; he had possibly paralyzed him. Felix, now under his opponent, watched the alteration in Ladd's face. It was very subtle, nearly nonexistent, but Felix saw it. Utter surprise, then an onslaught of pain. Ladd was still hanging onto Felix's wrist, but the power had dissipated from the grip.

"I just wanted to make you pay," he said softly. "Is that so wrong? You deserve it. You deserve to die for believing you never will."

"You can say whatever you want to me, but it's not going to change the fact that I'm killing you right now, and when you die, you will never be able to touch me," Felix said. The red of his hair, like the blood Ladd was shedding across the alley, hung in his eyes. He looked up towards the darkness of the sky, addressing the gunmen with only his voice, not his attention. "I suggest you drop your guns, unless you want me to assist you in doing so."

The clatter of metal to the ground bounced around the alley. No one dared to hang onto one. In their minds, they all believed that even a thousand bullets wouldn't be enough to stop the Rail Tracer. As soon as the weapons were discarded, Chane went directly for her husband, a moon-lit hand perching upon his shoulder. Felix looked up at her, all his limbs still entangled with a wavering Ladd, who was beginning to feel the devastation of his back injury numb him. Graham had neither the courage nor the realization to dislodge his wrench from his boss's back.

The blood running down her left arm was meager and thin, her body stemming the flow for her. At the moment of the gunshot, Felix had seen an explosion of gore, a slaughtering of his dear wife, but she was perfectly fine. It was just a graze, nothing serious.

_Leave him,_ he felt her say to him. _Let us return home. No more killing. They are beaten._

Felix continued to stare at her, his breath catching up with him. He breathed with difficulty not from the rigor of his fight, but from the dry fear that he had not acknowledged before. Chane scared him when she got shot. He thought it meant game over, if only for a short while. Removing his knees from the sides of Ladd's head, he used his feet to heft Ladd off of him and into a crowd of tin garbage cans. If the wrench wasn't firmly entrenched before, it surely was now. Felix had hung on to Ladd's arm, but the force of his throw was great, so the metal limb ripped away, leaving Ladd armless yet again. Chane reached to help him to his feet, but he surfaced effortlessly without her aid. He didn't want her to move her injured arm. Graham's knees gave way and he dropped onto all fours, trembling not from joy or fear, but from intense despair. Felix, as he stood, swiped a discarded gun, dropped Ladd's arm, and proceeded to mow down the gunmen. Bits of them spread everywhere, their skin and fluid coating all sides of the alley. Graham was sheeted in the mess of human bile. Chane pressed her face into Felix's shoulder. She had never seen him so upset.

"That's for touching her," her husband said to the carnage, before tossing the gun at Graham. "I'll let you live, so you can tell this sad story to all your friends. Just remember who had mercy for Ladd Russo, and who lodged a wrench into his back."

Felix swept Chane away, not speaking her her into the night, leaving Graham alone with Ladd and the remains of his following back in the alleyway. Ladd was still alive, Graham knew that. But he was paralyzed, if not permanently. And Graham was the man responsible.

The apartment was not far and Felix escorted Chane to the stoop and up the stairs. He ignored the cowardly brunette who was still trembling among the rabble nearby. Once inside, he sat Chane down in a chair, ripping off a strip of his shirt simultaneously as he held the phone to his ear. Chane was staring at his wrists. There were dark, purple fingerprints upon them. Bruises that Felix didn't seem to notice.

"Yes, hello, officer?" He began wrapping Chane's arm, staving off the steady drip of blood until he could get her a proper bandage. "I may have found someone you've been looking for. Does Ladd Russo ring a bell?"


	12. 2003: In Which Brothers Eat At McDonalds

-2003-

"I don't get why you want me to call you Felix, when you know I have to call you Claire. I have to use your real name, you know."

"But Felix Walken is my legal name. I don't get it either."

Luck and Felix faced each other over a bright McDonald's table that was layered with old french fry residue and used ketchup packets. The chairs were a little small, and the atmosphere was nothing like the bars back in the day, but it was enough to sustain them. They were hungry.

"Did you ever figure that out, by the way?" Luck asked, picking off lettuce from the side of his burger. It was limp and browning, the bun soggy. He wondered how kids could eat the stuff and still survive.

"Figure what out?"

"Immortality. Did you ever figure out how you got it?"

Felix took a bite of his hamburger, and chewed, then answering with his mouth full of food. "Not really. I figure it was that one night, though. When Chane called you on the phone?"

Luck made a fond noise, immediately recalling the occasion. "That was a hoot. Your poor wife, she can't even talk and she's trying to call me on the phone in the middle of the night. You really scared her that time."

"She overreacted," Felix said, swallowing. He waved Luck off, dismissing him. "I was fine. I keep telling you it was something I ate."

Luck smiled at the irony of the statement as he stared at the burger in his hands. He put it back down on his tray. "Right, of course it was."

Felix finished off his burger with his second bite, stuffing the sucker in his mouth and chewing it without severe difficulty. There was a shout of laughter from the PlayPlace nearby and both men turned their attention to the children gamboling inside, crawling like little rodents through the tubes, chasing one another in and out of the ball pit.

"That reminds me," Luck said, crossing his arms. "How is Vina?"


	13. 1939: In Which Felix Does Not Sleep

-1939-

"What's the matter with you? You look like you've been up all night."

Luck was lounging at one of his tables, still in casual ware, absent of a suit and tie. The morning was fresh, smokey and new, the sun barely awake enough to even cast a decent light upon the streets. Felix had slipped in a few moments before, composed and appearing quite calm, but his eyes, though alert, were ringed with the purple tinge of sleep deprivation. Felix acted quite inhuman most of the time and he could manipulate his body to defy gravity constantly, but even the great Vino could not command himself to look proper and rested after 36 hours of being completely awake.

"I haven't slept in three days," he replied, sitting down across from Luck. Felix stated it casually enough, as though it was to be expected, or considered normal behavior.

"Why's that?" Luck knew Felix to sleep when he felt like it and wake when he felt ready. On some of his train trips as the Rail Tracer, Felix was known to stay awake nearly the entire time, meaning _weeks_ without sleep. But deprivation of sleep for no reason was uncommon, unless Felix had a reason behind it. Luck was hardly prepared for it.

"Chane's pregnant," Felix said, straight-faced, palm to his face and elbow to the table.

"She's _pregnant?_ When did that happen?" Luck asked. He laughed out of surprise and even amusement. What kind of lucky kid would have the Rail Tracer for a father?

"Honeymoon, I think," Felix said as he watched the entrance to the bar. "I didn't notice it until she told me."

"Well, she was gaining all that weight."

"I don't pay attention to that kind of stuff."

They sat for a while, no one speaking.

"So, when's it due?"

"Early October. That's what those doctors told us, but I think it'll be late."

Another length of silence.

"Are you ready?"

Felix pressed his eyes into his hands, leaning back in his chair before letting his arms fall limply to his sides. He stared at the ceiling. "Nope."


	14. 1944: In Which Graham Exacts Revenge

Ok, a little note here. I just want Black Cat Running to know that I took the liberty of giving Vina a song to sing in this chapter. If you don't like it, just let me know and I'll replace it with the original version. XD;I tried to make it childish, so I hope I did. lol

* * *

-1944-

Graham Specter sat waiting on a park bench, tightening his empty hands and wishing his wrench was with him, but understanding the consequences of bringing it. It would give him away immediately. He needed a shade on his identity for now; he wanted no one discovering him. He felt outlandish in his khaki pants, his white beret and the large brown over coat. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't be caught dead in those clothes, but they were required for his temporary guise. In the few years that had wafted past him, Graham had changed very little. Aside from gaining an inch in height, and allowing his light hair to extend past his shoulders, he was essentially the same man. But there was something darker in him now. Something angry.

He had kept his wrench from that night, dislodging it from Ladd's back as the sirens approached. He fled not out of fear, but out of shame and purpose. He died that night with his brother. Ladd Russo lived of course, behind bars, in a wheelchair, but he was wasting away. The urge to break in Graham was the strongest it had ever been that early dawn, crouching in his garage among the inner workings of the cars. The following had broken up. Some had died in Vino's slaughter, some fled. Graham was alone now. The duty of Ladd's revenge fell upon his lonely shoulders, and he would carry it out dutifully as a last request. Graham had come to learn that a physical confrontation with Vino would be foolish. It was cunning, and strategy, that Graham needed to succeed.

Ever since that night, Graham had been careful to watch the notorious Claire Stanfield, and monitor his daily life. Graham, while bent on vengeance and slightly eccentric, was clever and intuitive. Huddled in the corner of a hospital waiting room, staring at the tile, he had been present for the birth of Vino's first child. He had observed from afar as Chane bloomed in the sewing industry, branching from hats to dresses. He would sit quietly in the alley next to the apartment, on the fire escape stairs near their floor, and listen to Chane's silence when her husband was away on another train ride. He was the shadow of the Walken family, and aspired to be their invisible spirit, their haunting. He was always there.

So naturally, Graham knew that she would be here. The Walken daughter. The daughter of an assassin, and she didn't even know it. Graham hunched over on the bench, elbows to his knees, listening for her. His eyes stayed focused on the ground. He would hear the little urchin. And lo and behold, not a moment too soon, her little black shoes with the strap over the top came clicking down the sidewalk. He heard her fresh voice, the voice of only a child, white and thin upon the air. She was obnoxious and free, like her father, the brat.

_When night falls upon the tracks _

_Everyone has to watch their backs _

_For everyone will disappear_

_When the Rail Tracer comes near _

_Rail Tracer, Rail Tracer, he will come find you_

_Just believe, just believe and he won't make you his food_

The girl sung it quietly to herself, a song that told a story that her father had been telling her since she was born.

Graham looked up and spotted her, a skip in her step every few feet, marching down the sidewalk a couple yards off. She resembled her father so much that it hurt Graham not to seize her in his arms and break her, rip her in half until she didn't work anymore. Her fine hair hung at her cheeks like red string, like dripping blood, her nose was in the shape after Vino's, her neck and mouth modeled after his own, and her hands could match the assassin strength, should they train themselves to reach it. She was a flawless replica, with only the shape and color of her eyes betraying her. They buzzed with the gold of her mother's. The girl was in a silky pink dress, pleated, dotted with flowers. Chane being a clothing designer, of course her daughter got the best garments available. As she passed him, Graham spoke out.

"Hello," he said. He knew she would reply, and he was right. Her personality, that he had come to understand as deeply as her parents did, dictated that she speak to strangers. It was the aloof fearlessness in her. A gift from her father.

Vino's daughter stopped, spacious eyes snapping to Graham. She smiled, and bowed to him. Her mother had schooled her well in manners, but the girl lived in her own special world. She was unconventional. Her mind was different from the others. She had the mind of her father.

"Hello!" she replied. Graham patted the bench seat next to him, and she sat down without an ounce of hesitation. "What's your name?"

"I don't have one. But your name is Vina, am I right?"

"Vina. Vina LaForet Walken!" she told him. Her French pronunciation was flawless and proper. Chane, while not able to speak herself, had made sure that her daughter's strong heritage was preserved. Vina knew French nearly as well as she knew English, thanks to lessons from tapes and books. "How did you know it?"

Graham grinned, leaning back, so his heavy bangs fell back from his eyes. He stared into the sky. She was five years old, but hardly shallow or shy. She would be a force to be reckoned with in the future, no matter what field she went into. "I'm magic," he said quietly, as though it were a secret for her to tuck away. "I knew it was you the moment I saw you."

"Like a wizard?" she asked him. Vina was a child born into reality that dabbled in fantasy. Her mind functioned in the realm of the impossible, the improbable. She saw the world as fantastical and full of power. "I've never met a wizard before."

"You can't say that anymore, can you?" Graham looked down at her, his eyes boring into her own. The shape of her face, and the caked, hallucinogenic malice behind her smile made him wish for his wrench again. She looked so much like him, it was sick. He wanted to break her, screw her head until it came off, like a bolt to a car. He would take every bone apart, put her in a bag, and present her to Vino. Reaching out, his hand stroked her cheek. "Where are your parents, Vina?"

Vina felt no threat, no fear as Graham touched her. She was pure and clean, unknowing of death and suffering. How Ladd would pine away to have her in his hands. The daughter of his sworn adversary, so oblivious of death like her father. It would be harmony, to kill them together. A lovely duet to the finale of their symphony. The sound would be marvelous, to Ladd. Even to Graham, now that he shared that desire to kill them both. Vina's hand took Graham's and she looked it over, tracing lines of his palm. "Mommy is at work across the street, and Daddy is away."

"Does she know you are here?"

"No. She sent me to play out behind the store," said Vina, her eyes surveying the gardens beyond them, "but I wanted to see the flowers. I had to come."

"How far away is he?"

"Daddy is far, far away." Vina's eyes dropped to the pavement. "He always leaves me." Her soft thumb moved over Graham's palm and he shuddered. Children were such innocent things, and infuriating in that regard. This one, as if to annoy him further, was abnormal. Curse her beautiful face. Her father's face.

"You do miss him, then?"

Vina did not answer, but she pressed her face to Graham's palm, his hand swallowing up her small eyes, nose and mouth. All he would have to do was squeeze, and maybe her head would pop. "Oui," she told him in French. "Oui, je ne. Yes, I do."

He was struggling now. She was tempting him on purpose, he just knew it. Could she feel his want to kill? Graham's hand went to her head, smoothing her hair, as a father would. As Vino would, perhaps. "Why does he leave you behind?"

She only shrugged, kicking her legs as they hung off the bench. She started humming to herself, and Graham had to close his eyes and adjust himself, repressing the urge to strangle the music away.

"You know," he said as he draped an arm around her shoulder, "there are ways to make him stay. You see, his mind right now is all jumbled up and he can't see straight, and he doesn't know where to go, so he goes everywhere. He has no sense of direction, so he can't stay in one place. Not only that, but he gets lost too much, and ends up farther away than he wants to be, so then he tries to come back home, but can't find the right way. Guys like your dad are constantly getting themselves stuck in familiar places, wondering how they could look back and still see something different. Every time he steps into another train station, he sees the same thing over and over, and remembers all the times he's done it before, and he thinks that if he keeps going, everything will change and become new. But he just can't see. It must mean he's blind."

"Blind? Like no eyes?" Vina asked him.

"Broken eyes," Graham said with a smile. "Eyes that have to be fixed."

"I can fix them," she said. "I can fix Daddy's eyes, so he can see me and Mommy again."

"You need magic," he told her. He reached into his coat, pulling out a plastic vial. It was shaped like a tube, with a screw top, and the plastic was opaque so the liquid was not visible. He presented it to her. "This is a magic tonic. If you pour it in your father's drink at dinner, and he drinks it all, it can heal his eyes. He will see again."

The gentleness in which she took it from him was unmatched by other children. She wanted so desperately not to lose it, or break it. It was her father's eyes. It was his medicine. To lose it, to misuse it, was to cast away all chances of his attention. In her tiny, pale hands, the vial rested, and she clenched it to her. Graham held up a finger, one translucent eye glaring into her twin golden ones.

"But there is a warning. If you let him see you pour it in his drink, or if your mother sees or if _anyone_ sees, it won't work. This magic tonic is special, and very shy. If someone catches you with it, or watches you pour it in his drink, it will stop working. You can't let anyone know about it, okay?" He raised the finger to his lips, pressing it there. "Secret."

She pantomimed his example, face grave. Finger to her lips. "Secret," she agreed. She slipped the vial carefully into her pocket. She would hide it from everyone. No one would know it was there. In the distance, a shrill whistle stabbed the air.

"Mommy!" Vina squeaked, and she slid off the bench. "Goodbye, wizard," she said as she bowed a farewell. "Thank you for Daddy's eyes! I know he will be glad to have them back. Au revoir!" And with that, she turned and fled towards the sound of the whistle. Chane did not have a voice to shout for her daughter, should Vina disappear in a crowd. In order to protect their most precious item when Felix was away, Chane had a whistle that Vina was meant to recognize as her mother's beckoning, panicked call. Graham stood up as he watched the waning sun spread orange light across the sky. What a useful girl. She would administer the final breath of life to her father, the fatal blow to his heart.

Magic tonic, indeed. More accurately, a strong pesticide. It would surely kill him, the scum. Vino was harsh in a physical fight, but he was no match against the facts of chemical laws. He would die a painful death within the day of ingestion. Graham only wished that he could be there to watch it, that Ladd could have been the one to force it down Vino's throat as blood trickled from all areas of Vino's body. It was shame that it had to be this way. But at least it would be over. It would finally be over.


	15. 1939: In Which She is Born

-1939-

Luck observed Felix. What an odd, odd thing to see: Felix, hunched in a hospital waiting room chair, head in his hands, immobile, unmoving, completely spent. Since the first inclination of Chane's pregnancy several months before, the man had hardly slept a wink. Not that Felix made any big fuss over it, but anyone could see the exhaustion on him. Felix, unnatural in all things as always, barely showed any signs in his behavior that he had not slept decently for almost six months, but the pallid tone to his skin, the terrible bruises around his eyes, and sheer burden to his shoulders convinced the Gandors that Claire Stanfield did indeed feel stress. Claire could worry, just like any other human being.

The Rail Tracer had never known his father. He had never known his mother. Never known his parents, and had been raised in tandem with brothers who, for the most part, raised each other. Felix would never show it, probably not even to himself, but the poor guy was scared out of his mind. Who wouldn't be? Luck could tell this was a step out of Felix's comfort zone, which was, mind you, a very wide realm.

"You really should just get some sleep, or something," Luck said finally, watching Keith light a cigarette. Felix and the Gandors were the only ones in the fathers' waiting room, save for a young man huddled in a brown coat at the corner. He was wearing a white beret. When Felix didn't answer him, Luck put a hand to his back. Felix snapped to attention so quickly, back zipping up pin-straight, he hit his head on the wall behind his chair. Felix put a hand to the back of his head, and turned to survey the wall to see if he had dented it. It didn't seem to hurt him. Felix's sudden jump had made Luck jump too, and he sank back in his chair, chuckling.

"Good God, Claire. Calm down," he said.

"I'm Felix now," was all Felix said back. The bags at his eyes were awful, but he draped an arm at the back of his chair and resumed a nonchalant pose, seemingly unaffected by all that was happening.

"You're not nervous, are you?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm wetting myself as we speak."

Luck laughed at that, giving his brother a hearty slap on the back. "Oh, come on. You'll be a great dad. Nothing to it but being honest."

Felix was looking at his hands, thinking. He ran his palms through his hair. "I've never done this before."

"Most first-time dads haven't."

No one said anything. Berga had fallen asleep due to boredom, and Keith patiently smoked his cigarette. Luck sighed a slow breath and laced his arms behind his head. "Well," he said. "You were right about it being late." It was October 31st.

Felix scoffed, putting his face in his hands again and leaning over, elbows on his knees.

"Do you know what it is yet?" asked Keith, speaking for the first time that day in a low voice. Both Luck and Felix glanced over at him, and when he received no answer, Keith removed his cigarette from his lips and spoke again. "A boy, or a girl?"

"Chane wanted it to be a surprise," Felix replied. He didn't know what he wanted. He couldn't tell which one would be easier to raise. He just wanted it to like him, and hoped that he would put enough effort into parenting. Felix didn't think much about sentimental lessons, but something was telling him to raise his child away from the blood and the violence. He would be proud to have an assassin for a son, or whatever it was going to be, but somehow he felt as though he might ruin something special. "I keep wondering what it's like for it to come out of her like that."

Luck glanced over at him. "What?"

"That's why I can't sleep," Felix said quietly, "because I was afraid every night that if I went to sleep, and didn't wake up, something would happen and Chane wouldn't be able to scream to wake me up."

It was a legitimate fear, but Luck chuckled anyway. It probably wasn't the best move. Felix was already on edge from lack of sleep and a constant paranoia of what child birth was really like. To have Luck laugh at that fear was an unwelcome sound. His hands went to Luck's collar and he lifted him off the ground, jacking him up against the wall behind the chairs.

"Hey, I've seen women die like that. It all goes wrong and the kid breaks something inside her, and she bleeds out like a waterbed. Chane could die like that, Luck. I wasn't about to let that happen to her. I wasn't about to let my wife and kid die like that."

Luck was not afraid, nor concerned, even though his feet weren't touching the ground. Berga stirred, and then snored, and Keith lit another cigarette and waved out the match. Luck patted Felix's hands. He could see the strain behind the dark eyes of his brother, even though Felix's strength was that of a healthy, suave murderer. Felix was scared, and ashamed of it, and Luck would refuse to acknowledge it in order to preserve Felix's dignity. It's what brothers do.

"Okay, Claire. Okay. Just put me down."

The power in Felix's grip drained away, and Luck was dropped harshly into the plastic seat. Felix sat down next to him, and resumed his hunched posture, face in his palms, nonspeaking. Luck watched him for a while, then closed his eyes and crossed his feet as his ankles, kicking back in his seat.

"Besides, you've done a good job taking care of them. Let the doctors do the rest, huh?"

Felix didn't dignify it with a reply, and they sat in silence. Luck looked over at the young man in the white beret, feeling as though he had seen him somewhere before, and was about to say something about it when a chipper nurse stepped into the room in her pristine white skirt and blouse, and her little nurse hat. She read from her clipboard.

"Felix Walken?"

Felix bolted upright and hit his head on the wall for the second time that day. He cringed at that one, and looked behind only to find he had put a hole in it. With a flush crossing over his cheeks, he again turned to the nurse. "That's me. Is Chane all right"

The nurse gave him a smile, as if to say, _yes, I could have guessed_. But what she said was, "Your wife did a very good job. Everything went perfectly, but she's a little tired."

Felix just sat there, hands clenching the edges of his seat, feet to the floor. "Oh," was all he could seem to say about it. He had been so ready to hear bad news, had planned out all the scenarios of what he would do if Chane was gone. It was such a relief, a welcome and unexpected relief, that Chane was perfectly fine that a wave of exhaustion crashed over him and he almost fell out of his chair, had Luck not lunged forward and held him still.

"Steady, man. Keep it together," Luck said under his breath, smiling. This was certainly a special moment for Claire Stanfield, or should he say Felix Walken.

The nurse, educated and trained to respond to ailing individuals, seemed little concerned for Felix. She saw this sort of thing often from men in the fathers' waiting room. She beckoned him calmly, waving her hand. "Well, come on then. You have to see the baby. She's lovely."

She? She? A girl? Felix stood quickly, stumbled back, but regained his balance easily and caught up to the nurse who was already exiting. Looking behind him, a grinning Luck was giving him a thumbs up, and Keith was smiling, waving goodbye and good luck to him. Berga woke just as Felix let the door swing shut, and he could hear the man's groggy cry of, "Wha'd I miss?"

He was following the nurse, hands in his pockets, trying to keep a steady pace, but all he could seem to want to do was fling her aside and truck it to Chane, to embrace her, and to have a look at this new daughter of his. Lovely? She was lovely? A perfect birth, no problems. It seemed surreal. Although Felix had known all along inside that he would wish it into truth that it would go perfectly, there was doubt. There had been constant, nagging, debilitating doubt. There was suddenly a hand in his, and the nurse was pulling him gently down the hall.

"You're wandering off, dear. My goodness, you're a nervous one, aren't you? So young, too," she said. She was well into middle age, but kind and still beautiful. Felix realized that he had been about to waltz into a random hospital room in the maternity ward, due to the fact he wasn't thinking clearly enough to watch where he was going. He was thankful for the nurse, but didn't say much to her. She patted his cheek after letting go of his hand. "You'll do fine, dear. You seem like a strong man. You'll make a decent father. Just remember this," and she wagged a finger at him, "they grow up too fast. Don't let her slip past your fingers!" And with this, the nurse laughed merrily to herself. Felix could only manage a weak smile. God, this was agonizing. Not that he disliked the nurse, but he felt as though every inch of him was itching for Chane, to get to her. It was taking so long.

And then, it didn't take long enough. They were standing in front of a blank door. A pink ribbon hung from a hook on the front. In golden font it said, _It's A Girl_. They were all over the doors, the blue and pink ribbons. Some doors had two of them. God help the people inside those rooms. Felix wanted to go in, but felt as though this was the last moment, the last instance in which he would be just Chane's husband. Now he was somebody's father too. The nurse waited for a few moments, watching him, before just laughing and opening the door herself. An awkward Felix was shoved inside.

"Get in there, dear! Don't make her wait." As the door drifted closed, Felix heard her walked away, saying, "What a hopeless young lover!"

Felix immediately found Chane. He dropped by her bedside, and made moves to embrace her, but she kept him back. She was fragile, and aching, and wanted him to be gentle, despite his uncontrollable enthusiasm to see her. She had been in labor for several hours, and most of the energy had been sucked from her body, bust she was still so beautiful. Her face, though tired, seemed more gorgeous than when he had last seen it. She was a mother now, a fabulously striking mother with golden eyes and ebony hair. He fell in love with her terribly, painfully, and he kissed the palm of her hand, pressing it to his face. He smelled it, and it smelled like a woman, like the cleanliness women naturally had. Chane laughed inside herself and ran her hand through his hair.

_I missed you as well, my love,_ she said to him. She had worried over him those last few months, when he wasn't sleeping and could hardly eat. He was always smiling, telling her that he was happy for the baby and feeling great all the time. She knew him better than that. He was a tortured man that no one saw. They only saw Vino, Claire, Felix. She could see the orphaned child that he really was, deep inside. _I missed you more than you know_.

He stayed at her bedside, talking at her a while, and she knew that he was only nervous, avoiding things because he was nervous. He went on undeterred until she placed fingers upon his lips, and beckoned him to look at what was tucked in at her other arm. The pink blanket, velvety soft and insulating. A little pink cap upon her head. The small face, exploring his own.

His daughter.

He hadn't seen her when he came in, but now it was all he could look at. She was perfect. She was so perfect. She was perfect, and she was his, Chane's, theirs together and he loved her in a way he had never loved anything. He knew, the very moment he saw his daughter, that he would willingly kill himself for her. He would end his own life, his own solitary existence that mattered above all other fake, material things, for that little bundle. He knew it would happen, and had been afraid of it. He knew that after he saw his daughter, he would change in some way, maybe for the better. He wasn't sure what that meant, to commit suicide for a child, but he seldom cared if it was the right thing to think or not.

It didn't matter.

Chane watched his face, the thoughts behind it, and she couldn't really tell what he was thinking. But it warmed her, it watered her up from the inside and she felt her eyes grow glassy, her throat thick, from watching it. She swallowed with difficulty, trying to will the pressure behind her eyes away. Wiping them upon her shoulder, she smiled, cheeks straining to contain the action, and offered his daughter to him.

Felix at first was hesitant. He wouldn't take her. He had killed with these hands, murdered, ripped apart. He had taken life with his hands, and he didn't want to hold the life Chane had just given their world with them. But she was insistent, she was firm, and after several minutes of an uncomfortable, silent battle, Felix relented. He didn't know why, but his hands were shaking when he took the little pink bundle into his arms. He stared down at her, the little baby, and she stared up at him. He couldn't blink. He would miss it.

"She's," he started, voice cracking. He cleared his throat quickly, blush covering his face as he continued, "She's so light."

_She is our baby, my love_, Chane sighed with a smile, leaning back on her pillows. _She will grow. _Chane watched him struggle with himself, narrowing his eyes as he sniffed a few times. He was trying not to cry, forcing it back. Had he ever cried before? She couldn't remember.

Felix gritted his teeth, setting his jaw, mustering what strength he had left to hold back what he never thought would come. He didn't remember ever crying in his life, but this little face, these tiny eyes, would drive him to it. He sat down, almost collapsing, in the chair by the bed and stared at the baby. A little, pudgy arm was reaching feebly for something and slowly, with great care and resistance, he extended his own hand to her. She grasped his finger. And then she smiled. Felix broke.

"Oh, God!" He nearly shouted it. "Chane, she's so beautiful! Oh god, she's so beautiful." With one of his hands holding his daughter, the other firmly ensnared in her grasp, he couldn't reach up to stave off the tears beginning to leak from his eyes. He looked away from Chane, his body shaking once with a sob as he held it in. He crushed his face into his shoulder to rub away the moisture from his face. Chane covered her face in her own hands, making not a sound, but crying with him. It was something that she had always wanted, secretly. To see him cry this way. To know that he was human, like she was. Her daughter had done this for her. Felix was sniffling now, trying to wipe away all evidence of his weakness, but he couldn't look at her without crying, wanting to cry. The happiness was too great. He couldn't contain it.

Felix and Chane cried together for what felt like a long time. They were quiet about it, trying not to embarrass one another, but the river of their tears was a continuous flow. The lulling sounds of her parents' joy sung the baby into sleep, and before long, she was taking her first nap in the arms of her father. Felix was slumped in the chair, eyes red, staring at his baby, while Chane scribbled something on a notepad. She held it up to him, and he looked over tiredly.

_Name?_ it said.

"I don't care," Felix said. His voice was husked out. He sounded so tired. "Any name would look good on her."

Chane sat back against the pillows and smiled softly. Of course it would be up to her to name the baby. She thought for a moment, then wrote something down and presented it.

_Vina LaForet. It is both of our legacies, our past that we have forgotten. She will carry us on into the future when she outlives us._

But Felix didn't read it. After six months of sleepless nights, Felix Walken fell into a dreamless sleep with Vina LaForet in his arms. It would be the first of many Father-Daughter naps. And Chane smiled.

_I love you_, she said. _I love you both._


	16. 1944: In Which Felix Walken Comes Home

-1944-

Vina sat at the edge of the sill. Chane and Felix had long since moved out of their apartment and into a small townhouse in Manhattan; they made the move when they found out that Chane was pregnant. There was a lovely bay window at the front of the house, with a small seat under it for a person to sit upon. It was here that Vina sat, watching the snowy walk for her father. Her hands were in her pockets. One of them was clutching a black, plastic vial. The tonic had been resting under her pillow for an entire month. Autumn finished late and winter began early, so the weather had changed drastically since then. Daddy had been gone for a long time. Chane said nothing, acted sweetly, but she pined for him. Chane loved him, missed him, but knew that traveling the rails was something that was a part of him. He must do it.

Chane was at the stove, stirring the softening spaghetti noodles. The woman inside her, the young wife in her heart, was leaping and clawing for the door. She wanted him home _now_, but she kept her patience for Vina, who was also waiting. Chane smiled at her daughter that was perched on the window seat. She was perfect. Chane and Felix, in the five years of raising Vina, had never considered having another. Three was the magic number to them.

"Mommy," Vina said, her nose against the chilly glass. It was fogging up with her warm breath. "Where is Daddy?"

Chane stirred her wooden spoon, closing her eyes and looking away. Vina had grown up with a silent mother all her life, and she had ways of understanding those silences. Vina banged her head gently against the glass a few times. Even when he was expected, he didn't come. For a five year old, Vina was perceptive and intelligent. She knew how to feel betrayed.

Chane tapped her leg, the noise muffled from the fabric of her nightgown. It was thick for the cold winter months. Vina was bundled up in a similar fabric. Chane had sewed them earlier that season for the chilly nights ahead. New York could be bitter in the winter. Vina glanced over and went to her, pausing to stare out the window every few steps. Upon reaching her mother, she hugged to her leg, pressing her face into the warmth of the gown.

"I miss him, Mommy."

Chane patted her daughter's head, watching the boiling water. _As do I, my darling._

The girls stood together in the kitchen for a few moments of calm silence before there was a clatter of boots on the porch. Vina went flying for the door, practically slamming into it as it opened.

"Daddy!" Her squeal was of pure, ecstatic euphoria. There was nothing, _nothing, _that compared to the moment he came home after so long. It was a furious release, a happy-know-nothing that was unmatched. She loved him unconditionally at all times, and especially when he came home. Her father's strong arms swept her up as he tossed down his duffel. She was flying, soaring, over his head. His smiling face, bitten by the wind, pink and young and handsome, was the first thing she hugged. He laughed a wonderful laugh.

"I missed you," he said, holding her with one arm as he hugged Chane with his other. They met with a kiss, a wanting, lingering, passionate kiss that made Felix wish for a hundred more children. He was talking to both his girls. His girls. Ah, he loved his girls.

He and Chane held hands while she cooked dinner. He was always at her neck, burying his face there, or hounding after her thighs or arms, holding her. She couldn't shake him off, even if she had wanted to. He was attached to her now. He missed her badly. This is what made her question him inside. _Why leave, my love, should you miss us so?_ But she never said a word to him. She only nodded when he announced his next trip. And as much as Felix was inseparable from Chane, Vina was glued to Felix. She was hanging onto his leg, wrapped around his neck. He didn't mind it. He loved his daughter. He loved having her near him.

And dinner was served, Chane setting the plates. Felix was in the bathroom washing up, getting clean. Chane, grinning to herself, set down the last steaming plate of noodles and fluttered away to the master bath to pay her young, rambunctious husband a visit. Vina hopped up on a chair, standing on it. Her father's chair. Out from her coat she pulled a vial. The black plastic one with a screw top. The magic tonic. Shy, she remembered. Secret. It would not work if they saw. Daddy always sat in the same place, at the head of the table near the door. His customary wine was already on the coaster. Blood red. She carefully set the vial to the edge of the glass. She poured. The liquid was clear.

"Magic," she said. It was invisible in the wine.

"Shy," she said. She heard her father's laugh from the bathroom. Then rummaging. Something fell off the vanity counter.

"Secret."

She threw the vial deep into the garbage where no one would find it. Her father was blind, but now he would see. And she watched him all through dinner. All through dinner she watched him. She didn't want to miss it. And when he first lifted the glass to his lips, laughing to Chane about the folks back in the Panhandle that he had met in the station, she sat up in her seat to watch him drink. He took a large gulp of the wine, grinning at a smiling Chane afterward. Nothing special happened. No bright sparks. No puff of smoke. No magic. Vina hung her head, staring at her food.

"Something the matter, Vina?" He was peering at her from under her eyelashes. She shook her head and he mussed her hair with his strong hand. "Such a silly girl," he told her. He took another sip from his glass, but this time he choked, coughing into his wrist until his eyes watered. Both the girls stared at him. Chane with concern, Vina with awe.

"Well," he said, voice constricted as he blinked vigorously, "that went down the wrong tube, I guess."

Vina hugged to his arm, smiling to herself. Magic. Tonic. Blind. See. Secret.


	17. 1940: In Which Felix And Vina Shop

-1940-

"All right, Vina. What's next on the list?" Felix strolled along the bread isle, staring at all the loaves. None of them were over 15 cents, and Felix was loaded with cash. At least a hundred dollars of bills were stashed in his back pocket. Chane had bought him collared shirts and slacks in order for him to better blend in with normalized society. She could put him in whatever clothes she wanted, but he would always be Claire Stanfield, the assassin.

Chane was at work and Felix had been instructed to go shopping for groceries with his daughter. Being a product of a strange and intense upbringing, Chane was sure to provide him with a specific list and instructions to only shop in the boundaries in which she set for him. Vina was tucked in the cart seat facing him, sucking on a teething rattle, her eyes following the brightly colored packages stacked on the shelves. In her other hand, she clutched the grocery list. Felix leaned down and peered at it, and Vina, growing excited, began shaking it wildly, smiling a toothless smile. It made Felix laugh as he tried to hold her still.

"Hang on, doll. I have to read it first," he said. They fought over the list together, and Felix rubbed his nose against hers, making funny noises as fathers often did when caught in a moment with their baby daughters. A pair of elderly women walked by and cooed over the adorable behavior of the young father, and when they commented on it, Felix blushed harshly and laughed, politely accepting their compliments of his beautiful baby. He spoke with them for a moment, back to Vina as she squeaked happily, nodding and answering the typical questions: how old was she? What was her name? By the time he turned back to her, however, Vina had again gotten him into trouble. She loved to do that.

"Vina. Where's the list?" he asked her. Then he noticed the soggy remnants of paper upon her hands. "Uh oh."

She only laughed again, chewing her teething rattle again. Felix hung his head.

"Great. Now what are we going to do, huh? I don't know what to buy."

She only stared at him. He stared back. It became a contest of will, until Vina screamed out, seemingly agitated, and Felix quickly looked away to quiet her down. The darn women in his house. They controlled everything. So, he started pushing the cart along the bread isle, sighing as he watched the passing bread.

"Well, then I guess we'll just extrapolate, huh?"

So onward they went. Felix would pick up a random foodstuff, ask Vina what she thought, and if he received a somewhat benign answer from her, he would toss it in the cart. He went all though the store, speaking with Vina the entire way. He loved to talk, and Vina was a perfect candidate, because she never had much to say.

"So I says to this guy, I says, 'I don't think you want to do that,' and then they just keep holding your mother up at gunpoint, right? You can't expect me to just sit back and take it, can you? I'm not going to go into any details, but trust me, I made that guy pay for it."

Vina sucked at her rattle, listening. She didn't say anything, naturally.

"That's your father for you," Felix said, kissing her head. "I'm a strong guy."

By the time they reached the checkout counter, Felix had a mountain of boxed cereal, fresh vegetables, fruits, crackers, cookies, cakes, milk, eggs, and condiments, as well as some assorted toiletries, piled in the cart. It took over half an hour for the harried cashier to ring it all up. The purchase rounded to about a hundred dollars, which pleased Felix greatly. He handed the cashier his bill and told him to keep the change, and then wheeled Vina out to the car.

The ride home was an adventure, because every sharp turn Felix executed, the food in the back would fly everywhere. Vina enjoyed the show immensely. Upon returning home, Felix loaded in all the groceries, leaving the numerous bags strewn all across the kitchen floor, hands on his hips.

"A job well done, if I do say so myself," he said, putting Vina on the floor. She crawled eagerly across the tile, little hands leaving sticky palm marks on the shiny floor. He felt that he had done a good deed. Chane would be so happy.

Chane was not very happy when she saw her lovely kitchen strewn with warming milk, heating fruit and various box-brands that she had never seen before. She had sent her husband to the store with the baby to get a total of five items: whole milk, grade A eggs, diapers, toilet-paper, and a new bulb for the laundry room light. The entire trip would have cost less than seven dollars and would have only been a few minutes out of his day. Then he could get Vina home, wash her up, put her down for a nap, and start dinner before she came home, since Chane was working late today. But instead Felix had turned the shopping spree into an all day escapade, littered the floor with useless food, and upon peering into the living room, Chane found Vina fast asleep laying under the table with chocolate cake smeared all over her face.

Chane's fists clenched. _What_ had he_ done?_

"Chane!" Felix stepped out from the bedroom, carrying a platter of deviled eggs. "Look what I got at the grocery store! They're pretty good." He made to embrace her, but she took his collar into her hands and glared. Glared hard. He stood there for a moment, then broke out into a smile. "Aw, come on. I did what you wanted me to. I went and grocery shopped, right? I got all this good food."

She continued to glare. _I made you a list!_ she was screaming. _I made you a list!_

It was a moment before he remembered the list, and he laughed bashfully at the faint memory. "Oh, yeah. You see, I was going to follow the list, but then Vina ate it when I wasn't looking. Silly kid."

Chane started shaking him, face contorted into one of supreme anger. _I have been working all day, I leave you with a simple task, and not only do you manage to ruin my kitchen, but you let our daughter eat paper and then collapse under the dining room table after coming down from a sugar rush!_

"Chane, don't be mad! It wasn't my fault she ate the list! I didn't see it."

She jabbed in the chest with her finger. _Your fault._ Then she turned on her heel and started for the kitchen. She stood amongst the rubble, trying to determine what to salvage first. Vina, having woken to her father's insistent pleas, crawled wearily into the entryway. She smiled up at her father, cheeks covered in chocolate sauce.

"Look what you did, Vina. You got Daddy in trouble again," he said. She only continued smiling, before yawning quietly. He sighed. "Why do I feel like you're going to make a habit of it?"

Chane swooped in and snatched Vina up, heading for the bathroom without a second glance in his direction. Felix started towards her, reaching. "Hey, I'll help bathe her off-"

Chane's knife zoomed at him at nearly a million miles an hour, just missing his left ear, and pinning his shirt sleeve to the door. He paused, unmoving, then smiled weakly. "Okay, nevermind. I'll just wait over here."

He dislodged the knife from the wood with ease, and then stared at the indention the blade had made. He sighed slowly. She would undoubtedly make him fix that later.


	18. 1944: In Which Felix Does Not Feel Well

Ok, Black Cat Running, I added what I talked to you about in this piece toward the end. Hopefully I didn't screw it up. XD; Just let me know what you think about it, and we'll edit it later.

* * *

-1944-

Something was very wrong. Chane knew that, even when she was in between sleep and awareness, floating on the brink of either, neither expending energy nor restoring it. She felt the cool fingers of discomfort squeeze around her, and she could not move. There was a worry deep inside her, welling up, overflowing, but she could not determine what it would be. Was the stove on? Was Vina still asleep? Was there something in the house? Something amiss? What was it? She was facing the door, lying on her side in bed, wondering if Felix was still awake or not. Ever since Vina's birth he had been good about falling asleep and waking up easily, without much force. So had Chane, until tonight, apparently. She closed her eyes and tried to see the sun, the beaches and docks of France, the night sky that was cleared away by the rising day. She wanted to sleep, be at ease, but the feeling would not be shaken. She needed help falling asleep tonight.

And what better help was there than her husband? She kept her eyes closed, turning over onto her other side and snuggling her body up against his. His bare chest pressed to her cheek, her nose. He never wore shirts to bed. That was when she discovered what was wrong.

Felix was burning up. She sat up in bed quickly, switching on the lamp upon her night stand and scrutinized him. His hair was plastered to his forehead with the sweat, the sheets pressing to his body now sticky and soaked with it. What was wrong? What was wrong with him? He was still asleep, seemingly unaffected by whatever was plaguing him. Chane shook him awake.

Felix woke immediately, grabbing her wrists, startled momentarily by the sudden wake-up call. His eyes were glassy, distant. Upon seeing Chane, he let her go, rubbing his forehead and then staring at the sweat that collected on his palm when he did so. Chane's hand pressed to his head. He felt so hot.

_You have a fever,_ she thought. Felix propped himself up with his elbows, staring up at the ceiling. He had not been sick for years, _years_, and he hardly knew what he was feeling. He felt hot, certainly, but that could be remedied by kicking down the covers, which he did now. There was a sudden pang in his stomach and he seized up, but made not a noise. Pain was a forgotten friend. Chane was already out of bed, rushing to the laundry cabinet, running cool water on a cloth. Felix lifted himself into a sitting position and put palms to his temples when his vision swam, his head spun. What was this, some sort of joke? Felix had not felt seriously compromised since his training in the circus. He remembered those long days. He, a lanky teenager, going to bed aching each day as he pushed harder and harder to learn. It was several years before the shaking, the pain in his limbs, stopped and he could push himself to extreme means without feeling the discomfort of the after effects.

Chane came at him with a cloth, pressing it over his eyes, trying to cool him down any way she could. He put his hands over hers, holding the soothing fabric there, soaked in chilly relief, against his face. What could this mean, then? Was he dreaming? Another stab to his stomach and Felix frowned. He began scooting off the bed, but the slow scooting soon became a brisk walk, then a dead dash to the bathroom. He collapsed at the toilet and retched into the bowl. Chane had stepped back to allow him passage, but now hurried to his side, kneeling neXt to him on the bathroom tile. Felix dry heaved a few times, then up came dinner. He flushed it down with a rubbery arm, panting. Chane just stared at him. This had never happened before. She didn't know what to do.

Felix wiped his mouth on his wrist and managed a sheepish smile to Chane. "Well, _this_ can't be good," he said to her. It was meant to be a joke, but she knew better. It was the truth. This wasn't good. It was very, very bad. He leaned over the bowl again, feeling the hot, burning fluid well up threw his throat and expel out. It was terrible, and it stank something terrible. Chane hugged around his middle, one cheek to his warm back, eyes wide open as she stared at the wall. What was she do? What _could_ she do? He didn't seem to be in any extreme pain, but regardless of that…

"Chane," he barked, wiping his mouth again. "Don't worry. It's probably something I ate in Baltimore before I got home. It's nothing serious." But even as he said it, there was a rising, expanding bed of needles in his gut that was blowing up like a balloon, sticking him from all sides inside out. His nails dug into his palms as he clasped his hands tightly. His head was pounding. Chane jumped up from the floor and hurried with bare feet into the bedroom, her gown fluttering as she stopped on a dime, glancing around as if lost. He was very, very sick. She would have to get a doctor.

"Mommy?" Chane's head snapped towards the little voice. Vina was rubbing an eye, swaying at the doorway, dragging a teddy bear with her other hand. "Mommy, what's that noise?" Felix retched again, coughing, groaning. Vina looked slowly towards the dimly lit bathroom, the door pouring light into the darkened room. She started for it, but Chane caught her hand, shaking her head firmly.

_No, darling. You must not go in._

Vina pulled, her face contorting. She dropped her teddy in efforts to push away her mother's hand. "No," she whined. "No, Mommy. No!"

There was a rumble in the bathroom, the clattering of a body to the floor, and Chane let Vina go so she could run in. Vina at her heels. Felix had collapsed, hitting his head on the corner of the porcelain counter, so that there was blood oozing from a severe cut upon his forehead. Vina stood peeking from behind her mother's legs.

"Daddy?" she asked him. "Daddy?"

Chane tried to shoo her back, close the door, shut her daughter away from the smell, from the blood, from the sight of her father lying, probably dying, on the tile. Vina would not be deterred, and she kicked, screaming, fighting, until Chane finally ran from the bathroom in a panic, leaving Vina alone with him.

_Watch over him, Vina. Be his angel! May God help us through this._

Vina stood against the wall, watching her father. Now that there was no one to fight, to oppose her, Vina wasn't so sure she wanted to be with Felix right now. There was red on the floor, moving slowly but at a steady pace. Vina couldn't see Felix's face because he was lying at an angle that had his face turned away, one of his cheeks on the floor, so all she could see was the back of his head. His hair was wet from the sweat, and he smelled like he did after he exercised. She wrinkled her nose. When she approached him, she could feel the heat of his body even before she touched it. She didn't want to touch him because he wasn't moving, and something instinctual in her tiny little body told her not to touch something that wasn't moving.

"Are you sleeping?" she whispered at him. "Are you sleeping, Daddy?"

He wouldn't say anything back, and she took another step towards him. The tile was cold under her feet, but then she stepped in something wet and warm. She looked down. Blood. She screamed, stumbling back, making bloody little footprints all across the floor before tripping over her teddy and falling back onto the carpet. She was now outside of the bathroom, looking in, as though it were a picture or something from a book. Vina held herself with her arms, lying on the floor, breathing fast, beginning to sob.

"Mommy!" she shouted, little voice carrying across the rooms, across the house. "Mommy, come wake Daddy up! Wake Daddy up, Mommy!"

When Chane didn't come, Vina stood back up, snot running down out of her nose and over her lips. She wiped it away, breath catching every few moments as she slowed her sobs down to mere sniffles. She would wake him herself, if Mommy wouldn't. Vina couldn't make herself move, though. She was afraid. She didn't want to go back in there, with the red water everywhere and Daddy not saying anything to her. And that's when she remembered.

He was blind.

He couldn't see her.

He would see. He would see her now.

This was the push she needed. Short, pudgy legs propelled her forward and she waded through the blood, eyes never leaving the back of his head. She was not very tall, so she did not need to kneel to shake him. Her hands went to the meat of his exposed arm.

"Daddy," she said firmly. She shook him gently, her force not very great. He did not respond. "Daddy, wake up. Wake up, Daddy." When he made a soft noise, as if in a sleepy pain, she viced her hands around his upper arm and pulled to make him flop onto his back. He did. And Vina, in a sense of shock, stood completely still.

His face was streaked in blood, across his jaw line, dripping around the edge of his neck, smeared over his eyes, so he had to blink repeatedly, squinting harshly. Vina had heard the stories from his mouth. The Rail Tracer, blood for his disguise, a globular being that kills, steals, rides trains. In Vina's mind, an intuitive mind that knew her father was constantly on trains, she thought that the Rail Tracer had gotten him. Shaking, she began to back away, but Felix reached out and caught her arm, staining her arm with the blood on his hands. His daughter became hysterical. She was afraid of him. She started screaming, screaming as though he was beating her, and for Felix it was torture. His head was banging against the cap of his skull, his muscles throbbing, throat on fire, stomach rippling, and now his daughter was acting like he was going to kill her.

"Vina," he tried to say, but his throat was thick with the dregs of vomit. She kept trying to scramble back from him. "Calm down, it's Daddy. You're okay!" But she wouldn't be comforted, and his face was paling, consciousness fading from the blood loss, the debilitating poison that only Vina knew was there. He started coughing into the crook of his arm.

Chane descended upon them, coming in from the bedroom. She stopped, seeing her husband in the visage of a character she had long forgotten, his face bathed in the war-paint of his Rail Tracer days, grabbing their daughter by the arm, bloodying her, scaring her. Vina was working herself into a panic attack. Without any hesitation, Chane dropped to the ground into the pool of blood and wrenched her daughter away from him. Felix's grip slipped easily, and he buckled as his body flooded with a new desire to get whatever was inside him out. He managed to make it to the toilet, dry heaving, before convulsing upon the floor. His stomach was full, bursting, burning. It was _killing_ him. He had never felt something like this.

Chane kept Vina under her arm, at her hip as she dashed back into the kitchen. She sat Vina, who was still screaming, shaking, down on the counter and Chane snatched a wet cloth by the sink to wipe off Felix's blood from her daughter's arm. As she did this, she took the ear piece off the phone and began to dial. Luck. She needed Luck. Something told her to avoid a doctor. Don't call the hospital, call Luck. He would know what to do, how to help.

She just needed to tell him.

She couldn't talk.

Vina was still screaming. The phone was connecting on the other end. It was the middle of the night, late and early at the same time, and she prayed he would wake up, answer his sister-in-law. She needed him. His brother needed him.

It was several wired moments before the receiver clicked. Luck's voice spoke through the crackling static on the other end. "Hello?"

Vina was still screaming, and Chane, unable to speak for herself, pressed the earpiece to her daughter's head, holding her up to the speaker. Vina kept sobbing, trying to catch her breath, as Luck began to question from the other line.

"Who is this? Hello?"

"Uncle Luck," wailed Vina. She clutched to the phone mounted on the wall, crying. She loved her uncle, saw him often. Manhattan wasn't far from New York City.

"Vina, doll? Is that you? What's wrong? What is it?"

"Daaaaaaaaaddyyyyy!" she screamed, covering her face. In a sudden fit, Vina kicked the phone from Chane's hand and it swung back and hit the wall, hanging there, dangling. Luck's tinny voice still drifted from it, but Chane didn't bother with it. She comforted Vina. She heard Luck's voice say he was coming over.

Chane kept trying to pry Vina away. Chane needed to check on Felix, she wanted to be with him, kneel with him, but Vina would not let go of her, and Vina would not go back into the bathroom. Vina had stopped screaming, thankfully, but was still teary-eyed and weepy. A 5-year-old seeing such a thing…It wasn't the worst thing she could see, but regardless, it was scarring.

Luck came in without knocking, dressed in sweats and an over coat. He was missing a shoe. He had been in a hurry, had pushed the speeding limits knowing he wouldn't get arrested. He went to Chane, taking Vina from her. Vina pressed her face to his chest, then looked up when she heard more footsteps. Keith had come as well, a grim look on his face as he closed the door

"What's wrong?" Luck's question was for Chane. She took Vina from him, wordlessly handing her to Keith. She motioned him to stay with his niece, keep her quiet, and she took Luck's hand and whisked him down the hall. Keith sat lightly on the sofa, patting Vina's back, staring straight to the wall as he rocked her back and forth.

"Shhh," he whispered. "Shhhh..."

Luck stopped Chane as they entered the bedroom, the darkened, sweet-smelling bedroom, and he held her shoulders, his eyes stone. "Where's Claire?"

Chane looked towards the dim bathroom, the cracked door. _In there._ She covered her eyes suddenly, sinking to the floor as Luck let go of her and ran for the light. _Oh, God. He's in there._ What would she do if he died? How would she live?

Luck skidded on the tile as he entered, and actually tripped over Claire. He didn't expect him to be on the floor. The bathroom was a decent size, so he fell forward against the floor next to his brother, splashing a bit in the blood that had collected. So much blood. The flow was slow but constant, like a hemophiliac's flow, not stopping, not ceasing. Luck's fingers twitched, the back of his neck prickling with a cold flash down his back. It was frightening. The brother he had known was unstoppable, untouchable, was-…

"Claire!" Luck reached out, drew back, and hesitating, before shaking Claire's shoulder. His skin was cool, but he was sheeted with sweat. Did he have a fever? Did his fever pass? "Claire! Can you hear me? Come on, man. Come on!"

Claire's face was covered completely, his eyes, nose and mouth hardly distinguishable from the heavy stains that coated his face like a mask, a living mask of what used to be a part of him. Luck couldn't tell if he was breathing. He pressed his hand on Claire's head, trying to stave the leak of blood. Nothing he did, nothing he could have said, would do justice to what he felt. It was a lost, jumpy feeling, stemming from the realization that Claire could never accept. Death could not be escaped; it was possible, even for an immortal.

Even for the people he never thought would go.

He took his hand from Claire's head. So much blood lost, especially from the brain area. Claire was done now, he was surely dead. There was no alternative. The man who caused so much death, ruled death like a master, whipping it down, scorning it, spitting upon it. Here it was, feeling upon him. Luck reached his bloody hand to his face, pressing his palm there. He didn't want to look anymore. Claire was pallid, eyes dark and unseeing, empty. There was a vomit stench lingering.

Luck would never understand what happened that night. No one ever would. It would be a mystery to them all until time stopped, the sun fell and the stars expanded to engulf the sky. Forever. But Luck felt movement on his hand, and removing the limb from his face, he saw that the blood was peeling away, leaving him clean. And from the floor, from Claire's face. All the blood was retracting, was returning to Claire's wound. And the wound sewed itself up, stitching up independently just as Chane would stitch up a dress. Luck stared as Claire blinked, breathed, and lived. Lived.

He was alive. Claire and Luck only stared at one another before Claire raised his eyebrows, and slowly began to shrug off Luck's grip. "May I help you?"

Luck sat on the floor, now clean and spotless of the red ocean that had once graced its surface. No tears, no grieving, no mourning. Luck had endured the death of his brother, and then watched the unexpected revitalization without a change in expression. So the Gandor sat back, smiling quaintly as he always did. "Not really. Just dropping in."

Claire still lay on the floor, his elbows against the tile. He was staring at his bare chest, as though trying to recall exactly what he had come to the bathroom for. "Did I just-? What exactly _was_ that?"

"No idea. All I know is that you heal a heck of a lot like an immortal."

"Do I?"

"Indeed."

They remained silent for a moment or two, Claire rubbing his stomach. There had been such pain, such suffering. Death if he ever thought it was. But of course he couldn't die, and here he was, still alive. Luck said that he had healed as an immortal would.

Luck watched Claire, and then pulled his knees to his chest, leaning against the wall. "Claire, what's your name?"

Claire scoffed, and grinned, sitting up completely to rest his arm on the toilet seat. "I told you, Luck, my name's-…" Claire paused, as though interrupted, and seemed to physically struggle. Then he said slowly, "My name's… Claire… Stanfield."

Luck didn't say anything until he stood up. "That's what I thought." No immortal could use anything but his true name when speaking in the presence of another immortal. Claire was one of them now. Claire, somehow, had obtained immortality, whether through summoning or by elixir. True immortality. He would never age, never die, unless devoured, and most immortals didn't do that sort of thing much anymore. Claire knew this.

Claire said nothing, and stood up. He walked over to the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. This was how it was going to be. Luck could see Claire trying to figure it out. How he was alive. How someone who was already immortal actually became immortal once again. Was it a sign? What was his world trying to tell him? Suddenly, Claire laughed softly as if remembering something funny. _Of course, _he thought. His mind was trying to tell him something; trying to tell him that he would rule his world forever. Now, not only was he untouchable, he was ageless. Claire laughed and then said aloud. "Haha, I astound myself sometimes. I don't know where my mind comes up with this stuff."

Luck stared at Claire, he could tell what he was thinking. He was thinking that his mind made him this way, made him immortal, or actually, ageless. Though with Claire, it really didn't seem too far of a stretch, but something began to bother Luck.

"Sure, you're now completely ageless as well as immortal," Luck sighed, "now what about your family?" Claire's eyes grew dark and hollow as he turned to Luck. He had a point, only Claire had this power.

Chane came running in just as shocked as she was glad. She cried soundlessly into Claire as she hugged him. _A miracle, God's miracle,_ was what she thought. How else could he have lived? Claire hugged her absently, staring at Luck as he turned and left the bathroom.

Claire would live forever.

Chane and Vina… would not.


	19. 1955: In Which Felix Handles Vina's Date

-1955-

"Richie, stop it. He's nice, and besides, if he knows you're nervous, he'll just make it worse on you," said Vina. She was sixteen now, a wild red-head, pale as a lily petal, and the envy of most girls in her public high-school. She was fearless, harsh, confident and sassy, a merciless avenger when it came to pranks, and hated the sight of blood. She would gag in science class during dissections, and once when her friend Tiffany cut her arm on the sharp end of a desk, Vina fainted from the sight.

She had never forgotten that night long ago. Her father, drenched in it, grabbing her. She had long forgiven him, but had never forgotten it. Vina, if given a choice, would withstand a terrorist attack, a bomb threat from the Commies, with her mother and father, because she knew not even the military was as strong as they were. Her parents denied it politely, laughing away at something that Vina was not privileged to know. Whenever asked about being assassins, being involved in the government, Felix and Chane would simply shake their heads, hold hands and scold Vina for conjuring up such an idea.

But Vina knew. She knew that her father was a suspiciously young man, not much older than herself. And her mother was no different. Both were still youthful, vivacious, and frighteningly well-versed in torture tactics and defense. Once, at her friend's 14th birthday party, Felix had done a back handspring, a one handed cartwheel, and then a front flip over the love-seat in the living room to rush into the kitchen and save Mrs. Sally from dropping the cake. The kids, needless to say, were all a buzz afterward and wouldn't leave Vina's father alone after that. The party ended with all the guests in the backyard learning evasive techniques from Mr. Walken while Vina watched. She had become desensitized to his agility years ago. And frankly, she was growing out of it.

When she was five and well into her pre-teens she wanted to be nowhere but next to him, loving him, watching him, keeping him near. But now that she was a hormonal teenage girl, exploring the driver's seat and the male population, he just seemed to get in the way.

"I'm serious, V. Your dad could give the Reds a run for their money. He gives me the jeebies, baby," said Richie. He was a freckled brunette on the football team, naturally. He was shy, nowhere near the quarterback status, and was often assumed to be something he wasn't. Girls watched him from afar because of his quiet nature, his studious habits and his dark hair and elegant stride. They thought him "cool" but too "cool" to touch. Even the other boys considered Richie to be a voice of insight, when in actuality the poor young man was just as lost as any other teenager. On a dare, Vina had walked right up to him, ponytail bobbing, smile on her face, and asked him to a movie that Friday. It wasn't long before they went out regularly, and then Richie presented young Vina with his jacket. He was a year ahead of her, and she wore it around school with prize. They were going steady. But Felix had not met the man yet.

Chane had found out about their little relationship a few weeks before, but had said nothing to Felix to preserve Vina's hope that nothing would interfere with them. Chane had given Vina a week to tell her father herself, or Chane would tell him. Vina ended up relenting, and now Felix wanted to meet Richie in person before he and Vina went out to another drive-in movie that night. After coming to find that Vina had already been "steady" with the boy for several weeks, Felix was not entirely pleased. But her father never got angry. He always smiled, remained calm. That was what made her the angriest. When she wanted to scream, argue, plead her case, he smoothly shoved her comments aside without neither a thought nor a care.

Vina smiled at Richie, scooting closer to him and taking his hand in hers. She loved it when he called her V. His fingers were sweaty to her, his palm warm. "Just be polite and don't let him boss you around," she said. Her lips grazed his ear. "Besides," she told him, and her lips enclosed around his earlobe a moment before she whispered again. "I'll protect you."

Vina was not exactly a "loose woman," but she was ambitious enough to act that way, even when sitting out in plain view on her own couch. Richie was high strung and too worried to indulge in her much. He swatted at her gently. "Stop it! If he comes in and sees us going at it, he'll have my neck!"

Chane walked in, dressed in a casual skirt and blouse. She owned her own tailoring shop now called "_Claire's Amore_," the name of the shop a secret between her and her husband. She got home from work a little early to be there to control Felix, should he need it. He was with Luck and the Gandors, helping them out with a small job for old times' sake. She hoped they would be careful. With all the suspicion about communists and spies floating around the country as of late, the last thing Felix needed was to be caught in a rotten act. Richie sprung up immediately, smiling a bashful smile, flushing as Chane glanced over at him. Chane appeared younger than she acted, was the source of all the beauty that Vina had inherited, and her quiet, soundless nature made Richie a fan. She was just a sweet woman, kind to him. His parents were divorced and he lived with his father, so a female touch was something he welcomed. Home-cooked meals from Chane were his most favorite. He had never met Vina's father, but he loved her mother. He hoped, deep down, hoped fervently that Mr. Walken would be as easy to like as Mrs. Walken was.

"Hey there, Mrs. Walken! You look mighty spiffy today." He reached out and Chane embraced him, patting his cheek. She thought he was a kind, polite boy, but she eyed Vina, as if to ask if they were behaving. She trusted that the knowledge that Felix was just around the corner had kept them on their best behavior.

"Mom!" Vina said, and hugged her hello, before turning towards the mirror and smoothing her thick mane of blood red hair. "When's Dad coming home?"

Chane was putting down her bag, entering the kitchen. They had a chalk board hung on the fridge, which Chane wrote on often. It was an easy, accessible tool for Chane to use to communicate readily while in the kitchen. She wrote, _Very soon._ Chane knew her husband very well, for not a second later there were footfalls upon the porch. Richie straightened up. He had never even seen a photo of Felix Walken. Chane came out of the kitchen and Vina took Richie's hand in hers, lacing the fingers, grinning as he glared at her with a terrified expression. He could not address it in time, for the front door whipped open.

Richie was struck dumb by Mr. Walken. He was so young! He couldn't have been much older than Richie himself! The man's face was sly, calm and intelligent, his eyes sharp and his hair the same color as his daughter's. He was tall, graceful, seemed foolhardy and impetuous. Richie's eyes widened, pupils dilating, at the speed and eagerness at which Felix rushed in and scooped up Chane and held her. Her legs wrapped around his middle and he kept her there, kissing her madly. It was as though they were fresh in love, newlyweds. The 1950s was a conservative time, and Richie turned away, flushing deeply from such a liberal scene. It was embarrassing for him, and Vina snapped at them for it.

"Dad! Stop it! That's rude!" she said. Richie automatically, in a panicked frenzy, shook his head. His voice cracked.

"No! No no! Continue, please! N-Not that I want to watch it, no! I just-…" They were all looking at him now, and Richie faltered, floundering. "I-It's a free country!" he said meekly. Felix snorted at him, finding the boy amusing. Then engulfed Chane in one last embrace before setting her down on the ground. He handed Chane something from inside his coat, but only Vina saw it. Richie was too busy staring at the ceiling in a seething shame. It was a gun. A gun, with a few fingerprints of blood upon it. Vina felt herself gag, throat clenching as Chane carried it discreetly from the room and into the kitchen. But Vina didn't say anything. She frowned upon her father's constant lies to her, but being raised in a gangster environment, she saw little wrong with the situation. Felix walked up to them, rubbing Vina's head as he went. She smiled. She had to admit it; her father was certainly a dashing man. Her mother was lucky.

"You going to look at me, kid?" Felix asked, picking at something under his thumbnail, staring at Richie out of the corner of his eye. Richie started, glancing down from the ceiling, scrambling for something to say.

"Y-yes, sir!"

Felix's gaze then fell to Vina and Richie's hands that were intertwined. He didn't say anything, but he stared at them until Richie took the hint and shook Vina's hand free from his. Felix then spoke, putting his attention back on his nail.

"You're Richie Shane, huh?"

Richie nodded, hands behind his back now, trying to appear strong. Vina told him to not be unnerved, so he wouldn't be. He would be as brave as he could for Vina. "Yes."

Felix eyed Richie for a moment, until Richie squeaked out, "S-s-sir! Yes, _sir!_"

Felix only smiled. Ah, this was fun. He would look forward to doing this more often. He was aware that his daughter was a stunning prize, a picture of loveliness. Not only a knock-out, of course, but a strong, independent young girl. Boys would be over her like a wave of dirty dogs, and Felix would be the one to beat them back with a stick.

"What are you planning on doing tonight, Richie?"

Richie had done this a few times before. He had spoken to fathers about where he was taking their daughters, but no father had been like this one. His mouth was moving, but nothing would come. All he could think about was those hands around his neck. The guy had to be in the Mafia. Felix drew himself up. He was taller than Richie.

"I asked you a question, kid."

"T-To the drive in! The drive in on 79th, sir."

"And when can I expect her home?"

"By midnight," said Vina, taking Richie's hand again. He could kill her, he could just kill her. He loved the girl, but she was making her dad _hate_ him. Felix stared at their hands again and Richie wrenched away from her and smiled weakly.

"By ten, of course, sir!"

Felix smiled at Richie, but Richie felt no kindness in that smile. Instead of a "great-to-meet-you" smile, it seemed more like "I'll-let-you-live-another-day-because-I-am-generous" kind of smile. "I'll be counting the minutes," Felix said, then reached his hand to pat Richie on the back. Richie cringed, as if expecting to be abused, but tried to mask the reflex afterward. Felix only laughed out loud, slapping Richie on the cheek a few times. "Crazy kid."

Then Mr. Walken turned on his heel, waving a goodbye over his shoulder. "Take care of him, Vina," he chuckled. "He's a jumpy one!"

Richie was humiliated and hung his head. Possibly the worst first impression in his _life._


	20. 1944: In Which Claire Asks for a Present

-1944-

The snow outside was gentle, was white. It was a Christmas time snow, so it was the best kind. The Gandors as well as some Camorras had gotten together at the headquarters for a Christmas party. It was nothing big, nothing too fancy. Just enough eggnog to keep them tipsy and enough mistletoe to keep Felix and Chane happy. Vina, still wary of her father from the bloody accident the month before, chose to sit on her mother's lap, leaning back against Chane's chest, playing with her mother's hair. But whatever happened that night proved to Vina that the magic had worked. Her father did not leave for trains as often, did not ignore her anymore. They played as they used to play, and Felix promised to keep himself free so he could take her and pick her up from school next year when she started. Chane still worked Monday through Friday, from nine to five, at her dress shop, sometimes longer when the season was busy.

Chane closed the shop for Christmas week, and she had her head against Felix's shoulder as they sat on a sofa downstairs. Luck and Berga were seated on another couch while Keith stood at the icy window, looking out into the cold night. Ennis was lounging in a love seat, Firo perched on the arm of the furniture. They held hands and smiled openly. Young Czes, still as nervous as ever of Felix, stood at the far side of the room next to Maiza. They were chatting quietly, speaking of matters that concerned only the oldest immortals.

It was one of the calmer times in all of their lives. Vina was coddled by all the Gandors, and Firo and Ennis enjoyed her company. For the Walkens it was like coming home to the family they never had. Chane contacted Huey to wish him a merry Christmas, and he succinctly answered her. She supposed it was the end of their conversations for a while. They had not very much to say to one another. Chane watched her husband's face, the preoccupied smile upon it. He was always busy thinking about something. Even now, when he should be relaxed and joyful, he was thinking. Always thinking.

Felix caught her staring, and kissed her nose, smiling afterward and closing his eyes as they pressed their foreheads together. Even in public they could feel so alone, so in love. He stood up soon afterward, however, and rubbed Vina's head.

"I'll be back," he said, and that was his only justification, his only explanation. As he started towards Maiza, Czes fled quietly into another room. Maiza offered his hand to shake.

"Claire, nice to see you," Maiza said. They shook hands, and Maiza's grip was firm, but yielding. Felix gave him a grin.

"I try not to use that name anymore."

"Not as though you have a choice, I've heard."

So he's heard, huh? Felix shook his head, laughing to himself. "I should have figured Luck would spill his guts out to the rest of you guys," he said. Maiza only chuckled politely in reply and took another sip of his eggnog. Maiza didn't know Felix very well. They were no more than acquaintances. After crossing his arms, Felix looked away towards Chane.

"I have a favor to ask," he said.

"Of what nature?"

"Of our nature."

Maiza's hand clenched around his beverage; his face became grave. "I see." He started turning away towards the buffet table. "I'm sorry, but I-"

Felix's hand flashed out and caught Maiza's shoulder. The grip was not threatening, but it was strong. It was going to keep Maiza still until he was finished with their conversation. "It's for my wife. I want her to live on with me."

"As sentimental as that is, Claire, I cannot-"

"She means something to me, Maiza. I'm accepting the fact that I'm going outlive my daughter, so the least you can do is not condemn me to lose Chane."

"This is what happens when you sample immortality. You cannot-"

Felix's grip tightened, digging into Maiza's shoulder. His voice was even, but his jaw was tightened, teeth gritted. "I didn't ask for this, Maiza," he said. "I didn't choose it, like you did. It was forced inside me."

Maiza was jabbed by the comment. His choice, indeed. He did make that choice so many, many years ago, and his brother suffered for it. He said nothing, shrugging Felix's hand away. He started walking, leaving Felix standing there. The only noise was the harmonic buzz of light voices. Maiza turned when he reached the front door.

"I'll grant you this," he said. His hand wrenched the door knob, and the cool air rushed in as he cracked the door. "I'll give you what you ask. Just once."


	21. 2003: In Which Claire and Chane Live On

This chapter was supposed to be a part of the previous chapter, but I decided to separate it...Even if it is a little short. XD;

* * *

-2003-

"Vina?" Felix's voice was quiet; it was a shy tone, a forbidding one. Luck didn't ask it again. He felt that he had touched something that was meant to be forgotten. "She died a few months ago."

Luck swore to himself, looking down at the obnoxious, dirty table and hoping without asking that Felix would forgive him. Felix loved that girl. Why did he ask that? Stupid. So stupid.

"I'm so sorry, Claire. Really."

Felix waved him off, messing with the salt shaker on the table surface, his mind far away and visiting memories. "No, you didn't know," he said. "She was a wonderful daughter."

"She was."

They didn't say anything to each other for a few moments, until Felix spoke again. "I'm thinking about things lately, Luck. And now that Vina's gone, I don't think there's much left. Richie died a few years ago, and the grandkids are grown with kids of their own. There's nothing here for Chane and I."

Luck said nothing, so Felix went on. "Chane misses France, and so do I. I think we're going to leave, start a new life over there."

"How long will you be gone?" Luck asked. His voice was very quiet.

"A very long time."

"So, this is goodbye?"

"For a long time, yes."

Neither man said a thing to the other. It was a difficult moment. It was, in a sense, dying for the both of them. Leaving one another behind and moving on into the ever-changing world. The sky would be different, the air would be heavier. The ocean would have a higher lust for vengeance and people would be strangers, even more so than they were now. It would be another place, another era, by the time they met up again, if they ever did. It was the end.

"When will you come back?"

Felix shrugged and stood, crossing his arms over his chest with a grin. "Time doesn't matter to us anymore. It's not 'when,' it's 'if,' Luck."

"Will you come back at all?"

"Luck," he said, slipping his sunglasses over his eyes. "It's a pretty small world and we have all the time in it. I'll be back." They walked out to the car under the harsh sun, the hot day. "I'll be back again."

* * *

And that's it! ^^ Thanks to all of the reviewers who liked this story! My friend worked very hard on it, and I was very pleased to help her! ^^ Wow, I can't believe we're done! D: It's harder to let this go now that we're actually done. XD; Anyway, thank you, and feel free to keep reviewing! ^^


End file.
